


The Silver Kestrel of the House of Malfoy

by Only_1_Truth



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco isn't as much a prat as he could be, First year at Hogwarts, Fluff and Angst, Harry is very chill, M/M, Not sure whether Draco or Harry is the main character..., Pre-Relationship, Very much NOT like canon, a surprising number of snakes, but in-character Draco is a prat anyway, possibly ooc Draco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 04:05:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 133,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_1_Truth/pseuds/Only_1_Truth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Draco were not the pompous little monster he was made out to be in Hogwarts?  What if being a pureblood Malfoy did not buy you a million admirers and a reputation that made you untouchable?</p><p>What if being a Malfoy meant you had a reputation that hung over you, and you wanted to prove yourself to be your own person in a tough world?</p><p>This is a story of Draco Malfoy, in which he has a loving family but not a loving house in Slytherin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've made up a bit of Hogwarts' magic: the whole building moves like the stairs. I explain it in the story, but this is just so that you're ready for it! I will probably make up magic a lot XD
> 
> Also: I do not intend to make Lucius Malfoy detestable.

Little Draco walked down the hall, lost again. There were no windows where he was, only the enchanted light pouring with deceitful cheeriness from the wall sconces providing illumination, meaning he was somewhere in Hogwarts’s interior. Which narrowed down his location not at all. With a place as big as Hogwarts, whole towns could fit in its interior, and his common-room was only one room. This hall looked much like any other, broad enough for a river of students and tall enough to make the pale-haired Draco look smaller. He’d already been small – his father had said that the bone-structure of a true Malfoy aristocrat was elegant and sleek, and that Draco would have the greyhound strength of his father when his growth-spurt hit. That growth-spurt was still a bit ahead of the young first-year, unfortunately, making him nearly the smallest of his class. 

He sighed again, feeling as though the giant emptiness around him were a void pulling him apart. It must be in the middle of classes for any hall to be so deserted, although he wished dearly to hear the muffled sound of a class behind doors – because at least then he could duck his head in and ask a professor about where he was. Of course, that would be more embarrassment than he could probably survive, but he was already doubtlessly in trouble for missing class. 

And Draco’s first year had already started out badly enough, with his reputation preceding him so fully that he was suffocating on it now. He wanted to finally get away from home and become himself, but all anyone seemed to know and think was that he was the spoiled son of Lucius and Narcissus Malfoy. 

It wasn’t his fault that Crabbe and Goyle had successfully put a Magicseal on him pretty much the first day, so the pervasive spells of the shifting, labyrinthine school flew right over him! But unless he wanted to complain and prove that he truly was a whiny, pompous pureblood, he’d have to keep his mouth shut and deal with it. 

Everyone else was learning the minor magic of coordinating the castle, but Draco was stumbling through a puzzle that he quite frankly did not have the key to at the moment. He’d also probably fail at most of his classes, too, or at least some of the finer points of spellcasting. It felt…it felt like being blind, or not having a sense of smell, thus missing out on things that others barely noticed. The castle tested all of her students, making them learn how to use their magic like a child getting used to its legs in baby steps: the halls shifted, the staircases obviously moved, and one path was never the same even from one hour to the next. But with a little bit of magic – nearly subconscious, never very hard – the students were soon getting to and from class and meals with only occasional stretches of being lost. It was the first step to becoming a wizard. 

But those were students who could _reach_ their magic. Draco was rather crippled in that respect. Even now, he could feel the Magicseal, a heartless tattoo beneath his skin and invisible to the world but unforgettable to him – it was cruel and he’d never heard of it before, but now he knew irrevocably that it wrapped one’s magic in steel wool or numbed it like lidocaine. Crabbe and Goyle had bullied him into a corner and said he deserved it, even though Draco knew that he didn’t. Still, he hadn’t expected the two large boys to wrap him up in a spell that hurt him so much. Draco was a pureblood and a Malfoy, but people didn’t seem to understand that that still made him absolutely nothing when his metaphorical magical fingertips were numb to the touch. 

Or maybe they knew that perfectly, and that was exactly why no one had stopped Crabbe and Goyle when they’d hit him with the Magicseal.

He was late. Late enough, in fact, that there was little point in trying to get to Configurations at all. If he had wandered too far from the main halls, however, then he’d miss the tidal flow of students as they exited class, and then supper would be a lost cause, too. The little boy’s stomach growled, and he frowned down at it, pausing in the broad, tall hallway like a silver minnow in an ocean.   
He saw fidgeting motions off to his left, and that was when life changed just a bit for the unfortunate heir of Malfoy. 

 

~^~

 

Students ignored the paintings that littered the walls of Hogwarts. First-years found them fascinating, obviously, and those lucky paintings that guarded House common-rooms were never to be trifled with lightly, but beyond that they were mere novelties. People saw them, awed at how they moved, and occasionally tossed out farewells and greetings when they passed in swarms beneath the most familiar paintings in the most-used halls. But that was the extent of it. What was the point of talking to paintings, after all? They were animated by magic, but they were locked in a different world, and not technically alive, with perhaps the exception of the paintings of past Headmasters. 

Not so for Draco Malfoy, however. 

Crabbe and Goyle were still maintaining the Magicseal with sadistic glee, but Draco refused to show that he was afraid of them. He still walked into the common-room every day, holding his head high and imagining he was his father. And then he refused to cry when the same bullying happened all over again, and that vicious magic sank like claws into his bone. 

While Draco – with much determination and effort – _could_ force his magic to respond to blunt, sloppy commands, he was still completely blind and deaf to the subtle magic that he was supposed to learn within the corridors. Other students hardly got lost at all now, as navigating the gentle currents became second-nature. With the Magicseal twining around his core like barbed wire and chains, however, Draco spent each and every day within a labyrinth. Every morning was like waking up and finding oneself on trial yet again. 

So he fumbled along and learned to follow other students, and when that didn’t work…when that didn’t work, he found himself kneeling at the side of the deserted hall, looking up at a painting and chatting softly in the quiet. Peace was hard to find in a common-room that thought you were detestable, but remarkably easy to find when your only company was a painting that got very little attention from anyone otherwise. 

“Draco, dear, you’re not lost again, are you?” the matronly nun asked with an admittedly hopeless voice, clearly already knowing that answer as surely as nearly every other painting in Hogwarts did. Draco was becoming a familiar face to them as no student ever had before. 

The ivory-pale hair fell in the first-year’s eyes as he dropped his head, but then he sighed and swiped the pale strands away. The painting was called ‘In Her Cell’ and Draco had just taken to calling its patron figure ‘Nunny’. All of the paintings had their own names, often choosing their own, but they seemed touched and delighted with this small, fine-boned child giving them nicknames like he actually cared about them. 

He did. Obviously. They were the only ones who helped him without judging him or making him feel like less than what he was. The fact that they could give him directions in the moving halls helped, too.

“I was late out of the common-room and got left behind before I knew it,” he explained with a sigh. In reality, he’d been avoiding Crabbe and Goyle, but it made him feel a coward. He knew that his father was brave, and wanted to find some of that bravery himself, but he seemed to lose his grasp on it over and over again. 

Draco tried a wan smile that, even when he wasn’t trying, had a roguishly prideful glint in it that was pure Malfoy. He even tilted his head in an imitation of the prat everyone expected him to be. “But it doesn’t matter, because Blaise left his chocolate frogs lying around last night, so I had them for breakfast instead. No one will ever know where they went – they were left unprotected in a room full of first-year boys, after all.”

The painted nun tried and failed not to giggle, even as she modestly hid the smile behind a pastel hand. “Oh, by Mordred’s own heart, you are a rascal!” she chastised, but not without a heavy helping of warmth. 

Draco allowed himself a small laugh that no one else ever heard, unaware how small and vulnerable his voice sounded as it echoed down the empty hall. He got lost like this all the time, and relied heavily on the paintings to direct him now. Without magic, they were honestly the only roadmap he had. 

If anyone knew how often the Great Heir of Malfoy sat in a puddle of robes beneath a painting when the halls emptied and he was hopelessly lost again, they perhaps might have rethought all that everyone supposedly ‘knew’ about aristocratic pansies and prats. 

If anyone had known just how close he had grown to all of Hogwarts’s hundreds of animated paintings, they might have been surprised. No one alive and breathing really realized that Malfoy had no friends outside painted people now that he’d reached Hogwarts.  
If they’d known just how _protective_ all of those paintings were becoming of their ‘little serpent,’ everyone else just might have grown a little nervous. 

“Now, Draco, child,” Nunny coaxed, leaning forward a little in her painting to look down at the first-year kneeling under her frame, “That’s hardly a good breakfast.”

“Yes, well…” Draco started proud, talking like his father, but then his eyes dropped again and he seemed to get smaller. Biting his lip in embarrassment, the young boy admitted with more openness than he showed normal human beings, “…That’s all well and good for someone who can find the Great Hall, but I couldn’t this morning.”

“Dearie, you need to tell someone about this,” Nunny sighed, sounding deeply sad. 

Draco’s head shot up and he lost his hesitancy. “No! You can’t tell anybody! I told you that already!”

He’d told the same to all of the paintings. While they could not leave their frames, paintings were remarkably well-connected, and had secretly gotten together many times to talk about the persecuted young Slytherin heir who so often talked to no one but them. All respected him and felt sad for him, but had thus far held their silence at his desperate, determined behest. Truthfully, they were uncertain whom to tell. After all, he was the son of a past supporter of Voldemort, so even teachers were not intrinsically fond of him. Perhaps Snape would have been, but Snape was…well, Snape. He got along with no one, paintings included. He was loyal to and protective of his Slytherins to the death, true, but he also happened to be out of Hogwarts on business at the moment. 

“Nunny, you can’t tell anyone,” Draco continued to remonstrate her with the stubbornness that only a few children ever know, the children who are both single-minded and far braver than anyone knows, “You can’t tell anyone because that is what everyone expects me to do! To just…just…bend and call for help!” 

“Draco, my dear,” said the painting with the softness of a mother, reaching as if she wished to touch him, “Asking for help is not a bad thing.”

His eyes, turned up to her, grew wet with tears so that they glistened like mercury, but he didn’t cry. “I ask you and the other paintings for help,” he went on in a voice almost too quiet to even be heard in the silent hall, his tone striving to be positive, “and you help me all the time!”

“With finding classrooms,” Nunny reminded him. Her voice grew sterner, hinting at the intense hatred she – and the other paintings – felt for the people that were hurting their Little Serpent, “But what you need is someone to take off that horrid Magicseal that those evil boys are maintaining on you!” Any professor could do it, even Snape, although it might be a bit more difficult than expected, since it had been sloppily performed by two first-year boys – rather like trying to undue a knot that had been tied by an amateur sailor, and therefore looked more like an impenetrable ball of rope than a knot. Draco’s magic was at the center of that knot, and the paintings worried themselves sick every day wondering just what was happening to the magic in the grasp of those strangling bonds. A few of the more daring paintings had given up what knowledge they knew to Draco, telling him how to fight it, but few of the paintings knew much about magic, and those that did weren’t supposed to share – in the same way that a person should not teach dangerous skills if they themselves are not sure how. But they knew that the threat to Draco now was greater than any mismanaged teachings they could offer, so they broke their silence and did what they could for him. Some of the paintings were very old, and knew spells that probably hadn’t been heard in generations. Still the Magicseal prevailed, and still Draco asked – demanded…pleaded…begged – that they tell no one. 

He was looking the painted nun right in the eye as he explained again with the determination of a dragon, “If I call for help, then it will just prove to everyone that I’m the spoiled brat that they think I am. I’m _not_ just the rich son of Lucius and Narcissus Malfoy!”   
For someone so small, as delicate as a silver kestrel, he was fierce now. Spots of color had appeared on his cheekbones as emotions flushed his pale skin. “I am Draco, and I will prove that I can do things on my own, and that I do not need the shield of my heritage. I will become my own shield.”

The nun – lovingly called Nunny by the one student who cared for her and the other paintings – wanted to argue, but instead she opened her painted lips and then closed them again. She and the other paintings had seen many a child walk Hogwarts’s halls, and so they knew the many nuances of the young heart and mind. It was obvious that what Draco said was _not_ foolishness – it was a matter of personal pride that went deeper than frivolous emotions. If Draco could not prove this to himself…then he’d die a little on the inside.   
Being his own person meant more to him than his magic, or his safety, or even his happiness. Happiness would come when he was sure – and whenever everyone was forced to admit – that he was more than his glorious heritage. 

Nunny sighed because she was afraid that doing this would cost Draco dearly. It already was. 

“Those Crabbe and Goyle boys are doing something to you which is monstrous.”

“Y-Yes.” Draco’s voice faltered, and he lowered his head in frustration at his own shaky tone. He remembered how his father talked and refused to be cowed, and regained control again so he could look up and declare stoically to the painting, “But they will not make me give up and whine. I’ll show them! Eventually they will know that they can never beat me.”

Nunny could see that, once again, there was no changing Draco’s mind. To tell anyone what was happening was to betray him, and the silver-haired boy had all of the paintings too wrapped around his little finger for that. None of them would even consider betraying him. So the nun sighed again and gave up. 

If Draco asked the paintings to get the moon for him, they would do it, but if he told them _not_ to help him…then they would obey him in that, too. He was their Little Serpent. “Go just down this hall, Dearie, and the Limping Shepherd will give you the next set of directions. To Herbology, you said? We’ll get you there before the second bell.”

 

~^~

 

The halls were dark and the halls quiet, and this time Draco wasn’t in the hallway because he was lost. He was in the hallway because it was the only place he didn’t feel heart-crushingly alone. 

The Limping Shepherd – an old panting done in sharp brushstrokes and blunt colors, making an impression of an old man and his crook – leaned down within his painting, acrylic eyes dark and soft as a night sky in the shadowy, deserted hallway. He looked down with calm compassion at the silver-haired child curled up against the wall beneath him. In the shadow of the painting and the loneliness of the vast hallway, a young Slytherin cried into the small alcove of his own body. With his knees drawn up and his thin arms wrapped around them, he was a miniscule figure in black and green robes. Although, in the darkness, he was nothing more or less than a boy crying. 

“I am _me_!” he sobbed, voice a thin plea in the darkness. It reached no further than the painting, but then again, Draco had gotten used to talking to paintings and their attentive, listening, painted ears. “And the _me_ I am is strong and smart and a respectable wizard all on my own! I’m not my father, I’m not my heritage, and I’m not all that money and power my name brings! I’m Draco, and Draco on his own is _not_ weak.”

“No, young wizard,” the Limping Shepherd said with his low, unflappable voice, a voice that talked to very few students but rolled like thunder over an open field, “you are not. You are surviving the tests and trials of your peers when what they are doing to you is unreasonable and cruel.”

It was part praise, part gentle chastisement, because the Limping Shepherd also wished to tell Dumbledore – or, honestly, anyone – about the sadism of Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. But Draco still refused to bend, because even a little bending would break the tentative self-respect he had been growing within the walls of Hogwarts. At home, he was loved and respected, but he’d come out into the world with the hopes of growing _as himself_. Sometimes it was nice to be the Malfoy heir, but sometimes – always – Draco strived to learn just how strong he was beyond the comfort and protection of his family. 

He was finding out now, but no matter how strong he was, he still found himself alone and imploding beneath the shadow of a painting.   
He grew angry, frustrated at his own weakness so much that all of his aristocratic manners fled and he snarled into his knees, hands fisting. “Why can’t I do this?!” he railed at himself in vicious fury.

The Limping Shepherd must have been painted to epitomize calmness and gentle strength, as he simply continued to stand within the smudged greens of his field and look down at the boy below. “A broad question, young wizard. The reason you cannot break the Magicseal is because it is beyond your schooling – far beyond your peers’ schooling, if they had not been perusing forbidden areas of Dark libraries.”

Draco sighed hard, catching his breath from sobbing, and argued without lifting his head, “I’m not talking about that. I don’t need to prove that I can break a Magicseal – I need to prove that I can be a good wizard and a person to respect _despite it._ Magic doesn’t make a wizard good.” However, Draco seemed unable to say precisely what _did_ make a wizard memorable and praise-worthy, and he sputtered into silence. The crying had faded to tears and sniffles, but still he didn’t leave. 

He could have asked the Limping Shepherd how to get back to the common-room. Instead he asked, “Can I stay here? Is Filch anywhere near here?”

Silence. Draco knew without a thought that the image would be fading into the painting, walking to another, asking Draco’s question. The other paintings, by now, would answer without hesitation. Soon the boy could hear the limping shuffle of the figure returning. “Filch is elsewhere.” There was a pause, and then an additional answer said with unswerving surety, “He will not come down this hall tonight.” No one realized it, but the paintings could be cunning if they wanted something. Right now, they wanted to help Draco.

“Oh.” Draco could have asked the painting whether any of the professors were alone, alone and willing to listen to a young boy who had been secretly crippled by his peers. He could have at least asked if Snape was back. Instead he asked, “Can you tell Lady in Black where I am? So she doesn’t worry?”

Lady in Black was the imposing Renaissance painting that guarded the Slytherin common-room entrance. She was aloof and standoffish, and talked less to Draco than the other paintings did. Still, she deserved to know where he was. 

“I already told her.” The Limping Shepherd was an imposing painting, stark and radiating stillness and rugged life. He was also incredibly efficient, and secretly understood far more than most people would think for a gruffly-done painting. Draco thought that the Limping Shepherd was the most dependable of all Hogwarts’s paintings, and definitely the Shepherd thought for himself the most. 

Draco dragged in a shaky breath, not relaxing but perhaps losing some of the desperate tightness in his arms and legs. “So I can stay here?” he asked again in a small and pleading voice. It was muffled by his robes, as his face was still buried in his knees, only his pale, silk-soft hair visible. 

The answer came with an air of sadness with no hesitation. “Of course, Draco.”

The little Slytherin – whom everyone called prideful, whom everyone heard was a prat – curled up on the floor and slept the whole night in the hallway. Had anyone seen this, it would have been eye-opening and also heart-breaking.

To the paintings, it was worse. 

They knew that this happened all the time. 

 

~^~


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The storm finally breaks.  
> Snape gets involved, magic bears its teeth, and The Boy Who Lived nearly gets himself killed.  
> So...nothing knew :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter feels long...but it is filled with awesome. :3 Hope you like it!

~^~

 

Something bad was coming, the paintings just knew it. The Man in the Glass Boat, who had a view of the outside from his frame, said a storm was brewing. The paintings, having seen so much, were canny enough to sense that foreboding heaviness of the weather wasn’t the only thing causing the tension. No one could put their finger on it, and the student at Hogwarts were blissfully unaware, but the old painting and the magically sensitive professors all would have admitted to a certain nervous chill to their spines. 

The paintings’ Little Serpent had endured a full month under the Magicseal spell, and by some miracle was still holding his head high, even when those horrid goons Crabbe and Goyle accosted him every time he entered the Slytherin common-room. They weren’t actually his roommates, but the portraits were well aware from Lady in Black that Draco’s roommates were cold at best, verbally cutting at worst. 

Contrary to popular belief, Lady in Black _did_ care for the Malfoy heir. She was simply a very forbidding painting, and had been jaded by years upon years of students so that she never expected much from any of them. But this student, however, this pale-haired little wisp of a boy, made her think again. Lady in Black was an old, old painting, and had seen generations upon generations of Slytherins walk past her and speak passwords – so many that their faces were all blurs. Draco stuck in her memory, though, as clingy as a blur. Every time her old mind tried to consign him away to the conglomeration of other students’ features, he’d come by her door again, and the old painting would be arrested by those proud but understanding eyes – and who would forget the one person who talked to them with politeness and respect. 

“Good evening, Lady in Black,” he’d always say, when he was invariably late, and the painting usually glowered at invariably late people. Draco didn’t look defensive or as though he were going to snap at her, though, and instead stood patiently before her. He’d always do that. And then he’d talk. There’d rarely be anyone else around to stop him from talking, and goodness-knows the common-room wasn’t exactly something the pale-haired boy could be looking forward to. Even if he were just stalling, however, his conversation was always well-meant, as if he truly enjoyed talking to the painting.

Lady in Black always responded tersely, but never quite rudely. Anyone else who had ever talked to the cantankerous old painting would have recognized that for the miracle it was. 

Therefore, even though she didn’t admit it, Lady in Black kept an eye on the delicate child with the aristocratic manner and polite speech. 

Therefore, she knew that something horrid was happening as the first month of the school year drew to a close. 

“That’s it – cry to your father!”

Draco’s back hit the wall, and he refused to admit that his eyes were wet. He was _not_ crying…not yet. And if he had his way, he wouldn’t in a million years. He wasn’t going to give his enemies the satisfaction. 

The majority of the upper-class Slytherins were out taking tests that evening, although that rarely made much difference. Only the actual, solid presence of the Prefect ever slowed Crabbe and Goyle down in their efforts to pick on Draco. Right now, those few that were in the room were either studiously ignoring the bullying or were smirking openly, whispering about how nice it was to see a Malfoy cut down to size. 

Draco felt cut down to size already. He’d been feeling cut down to size from the moment Crabbe and Goyle had ganged up on him and he’d felt that magical seal carved into his soul. Now, though…now he was armed with what the paintings had taught him. 

Mostly, there was little the paintings could do. They were, after all, just magical figments of an artist’s imagination for the most part. However, they had been around for a long, long time, and once they grew to trust – and then fiercely love – the young Malfoy heir, they’d begun divulging what they knew. Draco became one of the few to know that the paintings could actually perform magic – in a small sort of way. Just as they were only shadows of real people, their spells were shadows of the spells that a living, breathing, three-dimensional wizard could produce, and only some paintings could do anything at all. 

The Limping Shepherd could. Apparently, he’d been painted in remembrance of an old wizard. Another painting was supposed to be a caricature of a great witch, and while she always seemed to smile like a mad-woman, she knew magic, too, because that was how she’d been painting. Others paintings could only repeat what they had heard in their long existences, and hope that Draco could learn without any actual examples.  
Now, as Crabbe and Goyle began to get more vicious than they had before now, and Draco felt his breathing speed up in panic, he felt himself reaching for that illicit knowledge as the talons of desperation began to get hold of him. 

Crabbe hit him. The other first-years had liked to push Draco around, but had usually refrained from beating on him too physically – that was a line that, once crossed, they couldn’t easily backed away from again. They might tease Draco about his aristocratic roots, but the did this mostly because they feared that heritage. If anyone had caught sight of obvious bruises on the pale-haired boy, and traced those bruises back to Crabbe and Goyle, and had that information got back to Lucius Malfoy… That idea didn’t even bear contemplation, as no one doubted the protective nature of the Malfoy patriarch. 

Today, however, a storm was brewing, and Crabbe and Goyle were feeling daring. 

The first blow wasn’t too hard – more of a swipe, and Draco had endured that before. He’d gotten quite good at ducking. When Goyle suddenly rushed in and caught hold of his neck, however, the smaller boy began to panic. Speed was honestly the only weapon he had, without magic at his disposal, and now he was immobilized, and the pudgy hand around his throat was strong and hard. Fear pumped through Draco’s system like fire and ice. He began muttering the words to a spell, but then Goyle tightened his fist, cutting off Draco’s air to mere gasps. 

“Oh, the little prat thinks he can do magic!” Crabbe barked a goofy, cruel laugh. “Go on – let him, Goyle!” Piggish eyes narrowed even as the smile spread. “Let’s see if he can even throw off a spark!”

The choke-hold loosened, more because Goyle was too much a coward to actually contemplate throttling a Malfoy to death. Not knowing where he drew the strength or the boldness from, Draco kept murmuring spells in between gasps, seeing stars as oxygen rushed into him. The momentary loss of air had rattled him, and he tried and failed to remember what spell he’d been saying. It had been one taught to him by the paintings, he though, but he couldn’t remember. The words rolling off his tongue now were the effects of fear and visceral panic, and Draco didn’t care what they were so long as they _made this stop._

“What’s he saying?” Crabbe leaned forward, getting annoyed, to ask. 

“Don’ know. What are you saying, brat?” And he punched Draco hard, hitting the bottom edges of his ribcage so hard the pale-haired boy thought they’d snap inwards in body splinters. He cut his spell of with a cry of pain, forgetting the last words. He felt his magic bucking inside of him, pressing against the Magicseal ineffectively. None of his efforts were enough. They never were. 

“Why, he’s not saying anything at all,” Goyle laughed, and pulled Draco forward by the neck only to slam him into the wall again. Now some of the other students in the common-room were getting nervous, this new level of violence finally beginning to jumpstart their deficient moral center. The spike of pain up and down his spine cleared Draco’s head a bit with a last-ditch reservoir of anger, and he glared through slitted eyelids as he spat out another spell – another one the paintings had taught him. 

Crabbe and Goyle again laughed when nothing happened. The magic had come close, close enough that the Magicseal had responded with a flair of heat, forcing Draco to throw back his head with a thin scream of pain. He dropped his head again, panting, wrung out, when his magic fell back and the pain faded. Crabbe and Goyle were still laughing. 

Tears were prickling at the corners of Draco’s eyes now, turning the silvery grey to mercury. The idea of letting them see him cry was so abominable that he began mumbling more spells – one, two, three – that the paintings had taught him, not caring that they were all being dumped over one another, backing up like water at a dam. He scratched hard at Goyle’s hand, trying to get it to release his neck, and when the bigger boy grunted a curse and squeezed his fist in retaliation, Draco choked but then kicked, managing to hit the boy by blind luck. The pain under Draco’s skin was intense now as his magic writhed and twisted, indeed spitting out sparks blindly into the room, but nothing else as the Magicseal held it back. 

Goyle responded to the kick by swearing and slamming his fist into Draco’s face. 

No one had ever hit Draco so hard before. His mother had been a distant parent at best, leaving most everything to Lucius, and Lucius had never raised a hand to his son except for some well-deserved spanking at an early age. To suddenly had a fist slam across his face was a level of shock and internal betrayal that went beyond imagining.

And in that second, he remembered the last words to his first spell. He felt himself say them as if watching a stranger, his words eerily clear and calm: _“Audaciter clamo.”_

And suddenly the whole room shook, and there was a sound from within Draco that sounded like shattering.

 

~^~

 

Half of Hogwarts felt it, but the paintings were the only ones who knew what it was. The moment the very floor began to shake, every painting immediately tensed, thinking of their Little Serpent with sudden, grim knowledge. Immediately, they acted. 

It was evening, so most of the professors had retired to their quarters, away from the student body and where the magical tremors were emanating from. Those few professors not already relaxing for the evening were in classes with the eldest students, likewise oblivious – for now. The shudders were spreading as the very magic imbused in Hogwarts walls began to twitch and writhe. Students in their common-rooms panicked. Every painting that commanded a door immediately closed it, however, refusing entrance or exit even as students began pounding, demanding to find a professor or the headmaster to know what was going on. The paintings refused, using their power as door-guards to its fullest. The paintings feared for the Little Serpent, and knew what had happened – and they were not going to let anyone touch him. 

At the door to the Slytherin common-room, Lady in Black suddenly raised her voice in a horrendous bellow the likes of which had never been heard from her before, a “GET OUT!” that was filled with all the rage of a billowing fire. No one argued, especially because the collapsed form with silvery-blond hair was radiating magic like a growing storm of power. Crabbe and Goyle were the last ones out, both crying, their hands and skin reddened as if with sunburn or a scrape from where the blast had touched them first, searing and corroding flesh. 

They met Lady in Black’s eyes as they left, and never had they seen such a look of fury nor eyes so impossibly dark. “I should leave you in there,” she hissed with wrath, but then slammed the door behind them. 

That left the Slytherin common-room empty except for Draco, crumpled on his knees where he’d been dropped, coils and coils of magic unwinding from within him, past the Magicseal that he’d finally managed to destroy. He’d done it sloppily, however – and what choice did he have? – like a prisoner desperately dragging their hand free of a manacle, rubbing flesh raw and dislocating a thumb to do it. The damage to Draco was not visible now, but he was gasping and sobbing as his freed magic overwhelmed him.

Because, like a river dammed for too long, raging water had packed in behind it. Draco’s magic had built up to dangerous heights and didn’t look as though it would stop it. 

There were no paintings in the common-rooms, for the privacy of the children. A foolish thought, in the paintings’ opinion, especially now when they could not be there to watch over or comfort their Little Serpent. 

“Alert the professors,” Lady in Black ordered, when inevitably the denizen of another artwork came to her for information. The matron of the Slytherin door was still as foreboding as an oncoming tornado, protectiveness and wrath pouring off her so that her painting nearly seemed to sizzle. “But know that I don’t even let them in if they think to be harsh with our Little Serpent,” she warned with utmost promise. 

The word spread, but it was The Limping Shepherd, his eyes hooded but so secretly alert, who took the message down to the quarters of Severus Snape, who had just returned two days ago from missions unknown. Many of the paintings, like many of the living occupants of Hogwarts, distrusted the stern, dark man immensely, but The Limping Shepherd was the type to judge slowly and quietly, and long after everyone else had categorized the Slytherin Head of House as a borderline menace to society, the Shepherd had still be watching and thinking. He’d come to his own conclusions far later, and those conclusions had been far different. 

“Master Snape,” he said, appearing in a painting of a wooded glen that housed nothing but a watchful owl. 

It was rare – almost unheard of – for paintings to jump frames, and it was clear that Snape was not a man to sneak up on. His back had been turned, and now he spun with his wand leading, those dark eyes calm but sharp, much like The Limping Shepherd’s. “What is it you want, painting?” the Potion’s Master asked with his usual dearth of politeness, letting it be known how little he appreciated the intrusion on his space.

The Limping Shepherd did not appear bothered at all, as he stood beneath the quiet owl and simply returned the tall professor’s dark gaze. “Check the ambient magic of Hogwarts. A student is dearly in need of assistance,” The Limping Shepherd said with perfect, sensible calm, before he began to explain more. 

Snape stood, and watched – eyes slowly widening – and listened. 

While the rest of the paintings gave out information only grudgingly, more afraid of how the professors would respond and whether that might lead to trouble for Draco, The Limping Shepherd told Snape everything in clear and concise order, and when eh was done, the professor was calm and stony again. All he said was, “Inform Lucius Malfoy. I don’t care how you paintings do it – just see it done.” And then he swept out of the room in a billow of dark robes. In fact, he was moving before the other professors had even stopped asking questions. 

That was why The Limping Shepherd had come to him. 

Why would Snape ask questions?

This was his godson, after all, and despite his horrid reputation, The Shepherd had seen the efficient, protective, sensible man beneath. 

 

~^~ 

 

Hogwarts appeared to be in a state of chaos, and no one knew why. 

It felt a bit like an earthquake, only it was confined to just the floor: the walls appeared to be shivering. Some children, the more sensitive ones, were holding their temples or their ears as if the air pressure were changing or a noise were drilling into their skulls. Those less sensitive or more able to control their magical senses tried to comfort those unfortunates, but even the eldest were unable to explain anything. For the first time, nearly everyone could feel the magic of Hogwarts itself, and it was rippling and shuddering like a calm lake suddenly swamped with ripples. 

Out of the pandemonium, Harry Potter found that he himself was quite fine. He could physically feel the quakes all around him, and was admittedly unsettled by everything – especially the painting’s refusal to open the door – but beneath that he didn’t understand what all of the ruckus was about. The air felt fine to him, and nothing felt or sounded like it was trying to scratch his ears. There was only a faint heaviness to the air around him, but no worse than the feeling of a steamy shower before you open the door and release the heat. 

The Gryffindor students had given up pounding on the door to get the Fat Lady to let them out, but Harry figured he’d give it another try. Even though nothing about the added pressure in the air bothered him, he did feel a nagging sensation of worry. He blamed the worry on the fact that many of his friends and House-mates were crying or at least pacing and twitching in panic. 

“Lady?” he asked, knowing from past experience that she could hear through the door. He’d started out calling her ‘Fat Lady’ like everyone else, since that was what the nameplate on her frame read, but his time with Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had taught him all the ways you could get thrashed for being insulting like that. So he’d quickly decided to stick with ‘Lady’. He didn’t know it, but the Fat Lady loved him just a little bit more for it. She loved him even a touch more for his wild, adorable hair and huge green eyes, so alert and non-malicious. 

There was no answer, but Harry pressed on, ignored by everyone else. “Lady, can you tell me what’s going on? Please? Everyone here is scared, even the older ones.” 

There was a pause that was somehow more tense than silent, and Harry imagined he could feel a bit of guilt. “Are you afraid?” the voice drifted unexpectedly back through the wood, sounding a little abashed.

Harry blinked, surprised by the question. Nonetheless, he answered, “Well, not really.”

Now the silence held surprise. When the Fat Lady had talked, she herself had actually sounded faintly nervous and uneasy – almost afraid. Harry’s voice was actually the only one within a wide radius that wasn’t tainted by fear. The students were afraid because of the magic rioting all around them and the paintings acting strangely, and the paintings were afraid because their Draco, their Little Serpent, had suddenly become a great danger both to himself and others. Had Lady in Black locked Crabbe and Goyle in, the two students would now be dead…

The little Malfoy heir had gone from being powerless to suddenly more powerful than any student in the school, all in one devastating lurch. 

That sensation of dangerous magic was fueling the shudders through Hogwart’s halls and touching off little fires of fear in the less-experienced, less-centered students, and only Harry Potter seemed unaffected. 

“Why are you not afraid, dear boy?” said the Fat Lady gently through the door she guarded, beginning to feel herself waver in her duty to keep everyone away from her Little Serpent. She tried to tease softly, “Just because you are a Gryffindor lion does not mean that being afraid is wrong.”

“No, really, I’m not afraid,” he protested, then added with a shuffle of his feet, “But everyone else is, and that’s bad, you know? But if you told use what was going on, maybe that would help.”

The Fat Lady were considering, the sounds of distressed children melting her already-soft heart. Draco held a special place in the hearts of all the paintings, but that didn’t mean they cared not at all for all the other students. “Do you know Draco Malfoy, dear?” she asked softly. 

Harry blinked in surprised. “Um…I’ve seen him around, yeah.” The young boy’s face split into a self-deprecating smile that was quite honestly cute, although he didn’t know it. “He’s probably the only other first-year as small as me.” Harry hadn’t been well-fed at his aunt and uncle’s place by dint of Dudley eating most of his food and aunt and uncle not refilling his plate after this happened. Draco had just seemed fine-boned, reminding Draco of the small falcon he’d once seen from the window when he’d been doing chores. 

“Well, Draco is…is in a bit of trouble, dearie,” the Fat Lady tried to explain without letting her anger at the situation show. She could not imagine explaining to a first-year that a pair of larger students had magically bound and brutalized the ivory-haired Slytherin, and now everyone was paying the price, Draco most of all. “He’s not well.”

“And that’s causing all of this?” Harry replied with surprise. 

The Faty Lady sighed, “Yes.” 

There was a moment of silence, this time on Harry’s part, and he reevaluated all that magic he felt, only now knowing that it had come from that other boy in Slytherin House. Suddenly, he turned back to the door again, “Can I help?”

He sounded so sincere and so determined – a true Gryffindor through and through. It made the Fat Lady sigh regretfully. “I do not believe you can, dearie.”

“Oh. Are the professors helping?”

“Um…” The Fat Lady had heard from her fellows that their fears were being realized: the professors were all demanding answers first, action later. And a few were even acting as though the school where threatened and this was an enemy, and the paintings were closing ranks so that likely _no one_ would be allowed through to see Draco. And meanwhile, Draco burned, a small body bombarded by the unfettered anger of his own magic. It wouldn’t kill him, because it was his own magic, but it would come agonizingly close if things got much worse. That much power was not meant to be raging in and around such a small body. “They have been told, love, and are on their way,” was the closest to the truth she could get. She was still flustered by something, however: there was still no fear in Harry’s voice. True, this was The Boy Who Lived, but other than defeating Voldemort as a baby, Harry Potter was no more idiotically brave than the next Gryffindor – and all the other Gryffindors sounded at least very upset and confused. 

But Harry Potter just sounded like he wanted to help. “Aren’t you at least a little afraid, Harry?” she dared ask.

His voice came back through the door with a puzzled tone, “Should I be?”

That was when the Fat Lady truly began mulling over Harry’s offer to help – even before he began to argue more stubbornly. 

“I could at least go and see what is going on, couldn’t I? Maybe I could help.”

“You want to help Draco? Harry, dear, it isn’t…it isn’t very safe around Draco right now. That magic you feel is just a bit of what you’ll me if you go see him.”

But Harry just answered with that same bemused voice again, “That magic doesn’t feel so bad to me.” 

Now the Fat Lady was startled. Draco’s magic was threatening even to the paintings, and he trusted them! It was a matter of power that made the energy raging in the Slytherin common-room so bellicose, so even Harry Potter should have felt a primal bit of fear. But no, the thin first-year sounds just fine. 

“I want to held, Lady!” he says with growing determination, his Gryffindor nature shining. “I don’t know – maybe if Draco just had someone there, it would be better. Every time I was sick, that would have been better.” 

The Fat Lady thought back to the rumors that had been circulating regarding Potter’s past: that his relatives were heartless, and that it was unlikely that anyone had ever stayed near him when he’d been sick. “Draco is more than sick, dear. It’s his magic…he’s dangerous. And you barely know him,” she reminded. 

But now Harry seemed to have gripped his teeth into the idea, and beneath his tousled fall of dark hair, he was glaring at the door stubbornly. “Let me out, Lady. Maybe I can help!”

“The professors will handle it, or even the Headmaster,” said the Fat Lady sternly, but she was trying to convince herself, too – because too many of the paintings feared that the professors were reacting in entirely the wrong way. True, Draco’s malady was severe, severe enough that it hadn’t happened in generations, and severe enough that…

The idea was heartbreaking and horrifying to the painting that, like so many, had come to love the silver-hair Slytherin. Draco’s condition was so severe that the chances of him surviving and recovering were rare. It was much more likely that his magic – unnaturally strong and uncontrollable as the Magicseal had made it – would start tearing apart the castle and then eventually turn on the Malfoy boy himself. 

Harry knew none of this, but he had focused on the Fat Lady’s last statement. She heard his suddenly distrustful, soft voice from his side of the door, “The Headmaster sent me to the Dursleys.” And in that sentence was the hurt of his entire young life. 

The Fat Lady’s arguments crumbled. She was one of the most softhearted paintings, even when it reached nonsensical levels. “Do you really want to help out a boy you don’t even know?”

“Of course I do. I mean – he’s scared, right?” It was a conclusion that he’d drawn from his own experiences of being sick, or having his magic doing things it shouldn’t have. “He’ll like my company.”

“He’s a Slytherin, Mr. Potter.” 

Harry Potter hadn’t even know there were wizards until this year. He rolled his eyes and gave the door a gentle pound with his young, bony fists for emphasis. “Come _on_ , Lady!” 

Thinking she was doing a terribly foolish thing, but unable to stand up to the little boy’s arguments any longer, the Fat Lady sighed and opened the door just long enough for one exceptionally quick first-year to dart out. Another thing was held tightly in the matronly painting’s mind: for some reason, the magic that was making everyone else quake in fear had no effect whatsoever on The Boy Who Lived. 

 

~^~

 

Harry Potter likely wouldn’t have gotten anywhere near Draco despite being allowed out of the Gryffindor common-room. After all, Lady in Black had been a veritable fortress wall, and all the politeness and unconscious cuteness of even Harry Potter wouldn’t have gotten her to move. Perhaps the Fat Lady had been banking on this, knowing that her decision to accommodate Harry wouldn’t ultimately endanger the child. 

Unfortunately, she hadn’t banked on the influence of the Weasleys. 

Ron Weasley wasn’t the one in question – at most, he’d given Harry and unhealthy addiction to Quidditch and a dislike of broccoli. The twins, however, had taught Harry entirely too many things he didn’t need to know. The older identical Weasleys had initially intimidated Harry, and he was still wisely wary every time their grinning faces appeared. However, they’d taken a keen interested in _him_ , and ultimately they’d tickled Harry’s curiosity with their immense font of illicit knowledge. Harry Potter wasn’t a troublemaker like the Weasley twins were, but he’d shown them that he had a quick mind.

So what had they done? Taught him a few secret passages, of course. 

Now Harry found the panel hidden behind one of the many suits of armor in the castle, and slipped into a favorite tunnel of the twins. It was their favorite, as it led to their nemeses, the Slytherins – a real gold-mine, they’d said. Harry called light to the tip of his wand with a word and entered. 

The castle all around Harry was shivering like a living being in fever, finally making the first twitches of nervousness pluck at Harry’s spine. He’d been rightly placed in Gryffindor, however, and courage overcame commonsense. The passageway was low enough that even Harry Potter had to bend in half (meaning in a few years, the Slytherin common-room would be safe from the Weasley twins as they got too big to get to it), and he scuttled forward as fast as he reasonably could, grunting as the back of his robes caught a few times on the stone ceiling. 

As he got closer and closer to the end of the tunnel, the more and more Harry began to think this was a bad idea. He still wasn’t feeling the same mindless fear that the magic was infecting everyone else with, but the magic was getting thick enough in the air that he could taste it like ash and ice on the back of his tongue, making his breath speed up as if he were breathing rarified or smoky air. It didn’t take Hermione to realize that Harry was heading into something _bad_ , but he still kept moving. He’d said he would, hadn’t he?

 

~^~

 

Outside the Slytherin common-room, professors were clustered, angry looks on their face and threatening words just barely held in check by carefully cultured professionalism. Dumbledore hadn’t arrived yet ( _Where in the world was the old marshmallow?!_ everyone was demanding in their heads), and so far everyone was still trying to come to grips with the fact that the paintings had all stopped obeying orders. 

“Let us in at once, Lady in Black. We have said the password,” Minerva snapped, temper frayed nearly to oblivion already, “Liverwort.”

The painting’s acrylic eyes were black ice. “No,” she said, without an ounce of give. 

None of the professors – not even ancient Professor Flitwick – could recall ever having to use their magic against paintings, and were beginning to wonder if they would have to now. _All_ of the paintings were acting as insubordinate as Lady in Black. Before coming here, Minerva had tried to get in and check on her lions, only to find that the Gryffindor common-room was sealed, and the Fat Lady was suddenly as immovable as an adolescent Hippogriff. Minerva had stormed here in a wild temper, wanting to get to the source of the problem. 

“Lady in Black, if you do not move, we will be forced to get into the common-room by any means necessary, is that understood? We are morally obligated to check on the student in distress that we were told about-”

“Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. That is who is in distress, and he’s been through more than any boy should,” Lady in Black said like an axe falling. 

“This is getting ridiculous,” Flitwick asserted with a little huff, wand already twitching in small circles, “You paintings call us here, and now won’t let us in-”

“Wisely,” came a poisonous drawl from behind them. Everyone turned towards the Potions Master who had just arrived. 

“Glad you could join us, Professor Snape,” McGonagall observed tautly. 

He’d taken longer, but he was more prepared. Without preamble he shoved his way to the head of the small crowd of professors, but didn’t try to get through the door. Instead, he turned his tall frame just enough to snidely inform them with a voice like acid, “If you were to go in their now, it would be paramount to waltzing into a no-holds-barred duel.” When it looked – obviously – like someone would ask a question, Snape simply preempted it with a leer, “If the paintings told you what one told me, then young Mr. Malfoy is experiencing a violent spike in his magic. Now-” He glared unabashedly at McGonagall, who had the good grace to hold her tongue, “-Do you want to go in there and subdue a student by force, or shall we think on this?”

The sickly-sweet patronizing tone at the end nearly had Minerva fire spells at _Snape_ , but she held it together enough to create a sharp question instead, “Severus, we can all tell that there is a lot of uncontrolled magic in this school, and if it gets much worse, it will be a direct threat to the other students. If anyone else is in there-”

“There isn’t,” came Lady in Black’s stately, rugged voice, still unmoved, although she was eyeing Snape with something starting to edge into trust. He at least seemed to have done his homework a bit before charging up here.  
What Lady in Black didn’t know was that she was just on the verge of lying. 

“We cannot just crash in there,” Snape reiterated, some of the omnipresent sarcasm in his voice giving way to simple, hard tones. The worry in his eyes became evident as a hard, sharp glint against the blackness. “This is a delicate matter, as I hazard to guess you can understand.” Severus Snape would probably never be entirely polite: the last words were caustic. 

“Delicate?” Madame Hooch deadpanned, “Severus, I’m not the most magically- sensitive one here, but even I can tell that the level of magic beyond that door is just shy of cataclysmic.” 

“Which is why we have to handle this delicately,” Snape clarified before more voices could be raised. He hated wasting time, but he wasn’t foolish enough to risk the health of his godson because his fellow professors were trying to rush him. The light in Severus’s dark eyes were growing more razor-like by the second, and he seemed to loom more and more as the dangerous aura increased. “This has happened to students before – I stopped by Madame Pomfrey’s offices, and she confirmed my knowledge on cases when students have had their magic forcibly…restrained-” The urge to do violence on the perpetrators made Snape’s long fingers physically shake, twitching to go for his wand and hex Crabbe and Goyle (he’d gotten their names from another painting, with little effort and only a few threats) into oblivion. “-and then unleashed.”

“All right, Serverus,” Minerva finally acquiesced. Snape blinked at her in surprise, trying to see if her calmness were merely a ploy. However, her eyes were steady and calm as she looked back at him and continued, “What do you suggest? This is your house. Your student. We have no seen this before, but if you know how to proceed…?” She indicated the door a little impatiently, unable to hold back a glare at Lady in Black. Which Lady in Black utterly ignored. 

The respect from Minerva was refreshing, if unexpected, and Snape wished he had more time to digest the feeling. Instead, he gathered himself with a breath and continued, “I suggest we erect shields. After that, we should be able to proceed more or less untroubled.” He turned to face Lady in Black, thunderous expression to thunderous expression, poor temper to poor temper, all set within a framework of mostly black – the two could almost have been related. “We have no wish to harm Draco. I understand what has happened, and that he was put under a Magicseal.” His voice dropped an octave, irony thickening it, “I might even have a few suspicions as to where he learned how to so clumsily break through it.” Lady in Black didn’t twitch and eyelash, and definitely didn’t look repentant. _“I,”_ Snape finished, placing careful emphasis on the singular, his voice strengthened by a protective edge as he took responsibility, “am going to go on their and get his magic under control insofar as it ceases to hurt himself and/or others. Now: will you let me through, or am I going to have to give everyone an unsavory insight as to why exactly Voldemort recruited me?”

More than a few gasps escaped behind him at the blatant statement, but Lady in Black seemed almost impressed. She was a Slytherin through and through – therefore, the show of power didn’t disgust her but instead garnered her respect. “I will open the door when you are ready,” she acquiesced.  
Snape didn’t say anything more, neither in thanks nor relief. He simply began weaving a shield around himself. 

If the magic he was sensing from beyond the door was any indication, this would not be easy. He in fact felt a worm of fear crawling in his belly, making him wonder if his words had simply been a boasting lie. He had never personally dealt with a situation like this before – much less with his godson, although he tried to stay clinical and detached and efficient – but Madame Pompfrey had in years past and places far removed. She’d said that they were rarely pretty and always dangerous. Unfortunately, her training didn’t extend to the magical side of this, so it was Snape’s job to deal with the raging magic and deliver Draco to her for whatever healing he required.  
Unless this killed him first.

“Ready?” Snape said, sneering distastefully at the necessity of working with and waiting on a group. He only asked if they were ready out of necessity, not really caring. “We go in, and you will follow my lead,” he demanded.

“Severus, do you think that perhaps you wish to lead stems from the fact that this is your godson?” asked the head of Hufflepuff, tone careful but the edge of reproach in her eyes.

Snape glared at her with the frosted burn of frostbite and snarled back unabashedly, “No, it stems from the fact that I know what goings on here. Now get behind me or get out of my way. Unleashed magic like this is volatile and not under the owners control any longer, and it will be tediously difficult to subdue it.” He glared one last time before turning around, and his voice dropped an octave into the low register of thunder and warning animal growls. “And I hope you keep in mind that, yes, this is my godson, as well as a student. Therefore his health is paramount. Lady in Black, the door, if you will.”

 

~^~

 

While Professor Snape was trying to assert authority outside of the common-room door and Lady in Black was still determinedly keeping out all and sundry, Harry had opened the panel that finally allowed him into Slytherin. He’d practically tumbled into the room, and immediately knew what it felt like to fall into the wake off a tornado. 

The room was painted in violent shades of ever-moving blue and silver and blinding gashes of white. The furniture had long since been tossed back against the far walls, some of it broken, and the waves of magic seemed to be tearing at it like the teeth of cornered wolves. Harry could only sit and stare, feeling the wild currents pulling at his hair like a strong wind; he lifted a hand to his glasses, not wanting to lose them even as his robes were pulled this way and that against his bony frame. 

_This_ was the magical illness that the Fat Lady had said Draco Malfoy had?!

It was then that Harry noticed the form curled up in the corner, up against one of the walls in what might have been the eye of the storm, had there been any sort of calm in this storm. Actually, oddly enough, the area around Harry seemed to be fairly quiet, as if the magical hurricane lost a bit of its strength around him. It was tugging and pushing and pulling at him, but the acrid bite that was tearing strips right off the wall hadn’t touched the Gryffindor boy yet. Pretty sure that the slumped figure was Draco – the pale hair was unmistakable, in Harry’s opinion – the Gryffindor boy pushed himself to his feet and moved closer. 

Even with the magic not actually damaging him, it was still like walking into the teeth of a gale, nearly swiping Harry’s feet out from under him multiple times. Years of dodging Dudley had made Harry pretty agile, fortunately, and with a little help from the wall, he managed to get closer and closer. He didn’t try to yell to see if Draco was even conscious, because the room was too loud – apparently, magic like this howled and shrieked, and Harry couldn’t help but feel sadness to his core at the sound. If this was Draco’s magic, it was in terrible agony. 

That was when Lady in Black swung the portal open, admitting Snape and the rest of the professors. 

The magic snarled, tails of it whiplashing like mercury flails, and even the imperturbable Potions Master widened his eyes in shock. He barked a quick spell and jerked his wand in a burst of magic that strengthened the shield around him, but even then, he felt it nearly buckle. This was far more than he’d expected. This was insanity. His eyes immediately jerked to Draco, unmoving and seemingly insensate across the room, and felt his heart constrict with almost paternal sympathy and pain to think of what had driven the boy to this. Magic this strong was only released under great duress. 

The other professors were caught off-guard as well, so much so that Madame Hooch let out a yelp as her shield cracked. “Get back?!” Snape bellowed as if she were an imbecile, and the sharp-eyed woman wisely complied, backing away from the horrendously powerful magic. Draco had been fighting the Magicseal for so long, and he’d used such crude, desperate means to break it that his internal magic had basically matured before its time: they were facing the powers of a fully-grown wizard in the body of an eleven-year-old. 

Under other circumstances, Snape would have been bloody proud: Draco was as powerful as his father, maybe more so. Right now, however, all Snape could feel was grief that this power hadn’t been allowed to wait and mature in its own time, and instead would have to be dealt with before it killed them all and wrecked half the school. 

And then things got more complicatd. 

“HARRY!” McGonagall yelled suddenly, and for a long moment Snape couldn’t even comprehend what he’d just heard. He looked back, the world feeling as though it had slowed down, seeing the woman take an involuntary step forward against the gusts of magic; he looked forward, following her horrified eyes; his own eyes widened of their own accord, seeing that bony, mop-haired, idiotic Gryffindor trudging determinedly forward, already a mere meter from where Draco lay. 

Immediately Snape swore, then pushed out his free hand to shove Minerva back before she did something…well…Gryffindor-ish, feeling the crackle of their two shielding spells brush against one another and mix. Snape’s other hand jerked his wand forward in a spell to try and hold Draco’s magic at bay before it killed Potter, but Snape may as well have been spitting into the wind. Frustrated, he snarled again, before stubbornly trying to edge closer. His shield began to blistered and shudder alarmingly the closer he got. “POTTER!!” he finally raised his voice to bellow. 

Harry actually did hear Snape – all first-year students were trained to, in order to avoid the stealthy man and his detentions. Snape also had a voice like a thunderclap, and it was hard to miss when it was raised. By then, however, Harry was right over Draco, and the sight of the boy’s face held him frozen. 

Since they were not only in different houses but in very different social circles, Harry had only ever noticed the Slytherin at a distance. Again, the pale skin and paler hair made him stand out. There was no friendship or even mild recognition between them, but Harry had passed the other boy in the courtyard or Great Hall often enough to know what Draco’s face looked like normally. Now was not normal. Now, the foxlike features were twisted in agony, and beneath the tracks of tears was a fresh, spreading bruise across his cheekbone, so familiar to the dark-haired orphan who’d felt an angry fist before.

Suddenly, without warning, the room seemed to pulse, a subsonic _‘whooomp’_ hitting everyone’s ears. The storm didn’t stop, but it was the beginning of the end. As Snape watched, mesmerized and more gobsmacked than he wanted to admit, not only was Harry Potter not annihilated by feral, uncontrolled magic, but his presence led to a calming of the storm the second he knelt down right at Draco’s side. Snape blinked, his brain beginning to reassert itself, eyes narrowing as he forced himself to observe all that was happening, even though it made no sense at the moment. He was a very knowledgeable man, and although he could not think up an explanation now, that did not mean he was unaware that one existed. 

Seemingly oblivious to the shocked professors standing frozen across the room, Harry got down on his knees next to the Malfoy boy, close enough that his knees touched the other’s robes. Harry understood abuse and he understood fear and magic that made no sense, and that compassion showed on his face as he reached forward to place a hand on Draco’s shoulder, squeezing. The other boy’s eyes flickered beneath closed lids, and he twitched, thin pale fingers flexing where they lay against the floor. He took in a small gasp. “It’s okay,” Harry said, with a level of sympathy rarely found in eleven-year-old boys. Then again, Harry had been through more than his age implied. 

After the gasp, Draco squirmed more, still semi-conscious at best and seeming to feel the wild tearing of his magic – but it was tapering off. With Harry’s nearness, the magic had lost its bite, and it was like a child beating against the sturdy chest of a patient parent. Whatever it was about Harry Potter and his magic, it was buffering Draco’s sudden power, and slowly – ever so slowly – the room quieted. 

By the time it did – by the time the wind stopped and the colors of rampant silver and blue had faded – Severus had made his mind up but kept his council to himself. He was simply standing, watching the Potter boy with new appreciation. 

Minerva was battling between bone-melting relief and bone-jarring fury at one of her students nearly getting slain. “Harry Potter-!!” she started to fume as the latter won out.

Snape just pushed back again as Harry’s eyes snapped up, startled beneath large glasses. Those eyes moved to Snape, and it was funny that he looked more afraid of the Potions Master than he had of the lethal magic trying to immolate the rooms moments earlier. Snape’s lips curled in a lopsided smirk of amusement, but he said only, “Nice of you to join us.”

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it has been so long between posts for this one! Now that I've finally got this chapter in place, I can finally get into the meat of the story!  
> Lucius Malfoy to make an entrance in the near future.
> 
> Also, the spell that Draco said (which I made up) can be found at: http://www.math.ubc.ca/~cass/frivs/latin/latin-dict-full.html  
> The words, loosely translated, mean:  
>  _Audaciter_ =fearless  
>  _Clamo_ =declaration


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco is in the hospital wing, and Harry gets some explanations...from Snape. 
> 
> Lucius likewise gets some explanations. But with just a bit more menace involved...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of Severus/Lucius dynamic going on! I can just see them being epic friends growing up :3 
> 
> There might be some actual Severus/Lucius eventually...not sure yet. But not in this chapter.

~^~

 

“Keep Potter with him,” Snape had ordered without explanation, and everyone had listened to him for once in his life. Then again, following Snape’s suggestions had worked well so far: by some miracle, no one was injured. Draco, who looked feverish and unconscious but otherwise stable for the moment, was carried away by Madame Hooch while Minerva followed closely, a hand on Harry’s shoulder steering the confused boy along in their wake, as per Snape’s orders. At that point, Dumbledore arrived.

As always, Snape tensed a little inside as he faced the old man, eyes becoming unreadable. However, the Headmaster, with his usual lack of hurry or visible worry, simply asked questions, listened, and then – ultimately and to everyone’s surprise, not least of which Severus’s – declared with a small smile that Snape was in charge and would no doubt see this handled with great aplomb and skill. 

Snape had never been accused of having aplomb in his life, and if anyone ever trusted his abundance of skills, it was accidentally or because they had no choice. However Dumbledore was Dumbledore, and the old man simply toddled away again at that point like some mysterious bearded mystic, so no one questioned him. 

Taking one breath in his nose to let the idea of authority settle in, refusing to show the other professors that he was as flustered as they were, the Potions Master abruptly got his feet moving and began stalking down the hallway towards the Infirmary. 

 

~^~

 

The Boy Who Lives was sitting uncertainly on a stool just outside the curtain pulled around the Malfoy boy’s bed, kicking his legs and wondering what he was still doing here; Draco was now spelled unconscious with Madame Pompfrey still seeing to him, although she’d already confirmed what Snape had said, that this magical malady wasn’t just something you could fix with a swish of a wand; Snape and the other senior professors were in Madame Pomfrey’s office, where everyone was getting used to the fact that Snape, wonders to wonders, was in control. 

“So you’ve had some experience with this?” Minerva was trying, but she couldn’t hide that she was a bit incredulous. 

For his part, Snape didn’t try at all to hold back the will to roll his eyes. Settled back on the couch in the healer’s office, the lowness of the chair making his long limbs look longer. “You are aware that Lucius Malfoy and I are close?” he deadpanned instead of answering.

The Gryffindor Head of House as well as everyone else narrowed their eyes a bit and shifted warily, but the older woman answered, “Yes, Severus. Your friendship to that…man…is not exactly a secret.” By the way she said ‘man’ it was clear that she was actually struggling to say something closer to ‘cad’ or something similar, but was too tactful for that. 

Thankful for even that flicker of tact, Snape kept from rolling his eyes again and continued in the voice he reserved for particularly slow students, “Lucius Malfoy similarly came into his magic at an early age, and it was found that my magic was most compatible with his, as Potter’s magic is with Draco’s.” He pretended not to notice how this bit of information caused a wave of surprise to ripple through the ranks of his peers. Voice still professional yet slightly derisive as always, the Potions Master continued, “Draco’s case is clearly more severe, and he is much younger, but the basic principles are still the same.” A slight shift of his posture, and suddenly Severus was in teaching-mode. “With cases of strong and particularly uncontrolled magic, especially at an early age, the only effective response is often to find a compatible – controlled – magic type. You saw how Draco’s magic, unleashed and exacerbated as it was.” He cast a gimlet glare at Madame Hooch, who’d more than seen it, but had nearly felt it as her shielding spell had failed; Snape’s look said this was her fault in his book. He didn’t otherwise comment, however. “Essentially, the only way he can control his magic right now is in the Potter boy’s presence, as the latter’s magical core resonates at a frequency that calms the magic that was so egregiously and prematurely released from within Draco. Simplified, their magics are complimentary to one another.”

This seemed to make sense to the other professors, or at least they seemed to be doing their best to swallow this and accept what they _didn’t_ understand. Minerva was a woman of questions, however, and perhaps it helped that she didn’t fear Snape as some of the other professors secretly did. “Is it possible that some other student might be compatible with Draco? After all, he and Harry are in different houses, and considering their mutual family backgrounds of light and dark, I’m sure you can see how another match might be more sensible.”

“I will look,” Snape nodded agreeably. Why did everyone look so surprised? Snape could be agreeable. “There are a few spells that can be used to identify this sort of thing, fortunately. There will be no need to replicate the events of earlier-” Events he had to admit were rather spectacular. “-Just to identify another magical core of the correct resonance. Until then, I suggest that Potter be kept near Draco at all times. As the victim’s magic grows more controlled, proximity matters less, but at this moment, I’m sure that you all saw what happened in that room.” His eyes met every face, cool and merciless as the animal of his house. “Young Draco’s magic did not falter and dissipate until the Potter boy was right next to him.” Behind the omnipresent mask of his face, the dark-haired man was mulling over that; as loath as he was to admit it, he was impressed by the Potter boy’s actions. True, it was a stunning example of Gryffindor idiocy, but Potter had essentially walked without fear into a fire-storm and then tamped it down with his magic, a fact that was more impressive because Snape knew that it was all unconscious. No overt applications of magic would have been effective, not without seriously hurting Draco, at least. Draco’s case – with the horrific, unskilled application of the Magicseal – was actually very, very different from what Lucius had experienced decades before, enough so that Snape was secretly nauseous with nervousness. Coming into one’s magic early was actually far from unheard of, and usually the remedy included a few mild (if delicate) binding spells until a suitable magical match was found, and after that a bit of quality time with that match wasn’t too hard to bear. Draco, unfortunately, was beyond the point where any binding spells would work without nearly killing him, and a match would have to be perfect or some of Draco’s rampant, awakened magic would still uncoil and cause injuries. From a bit of unobtrusive (meaning secretive) observation, visually and magically, Severus had noted that Harry Potter was a surprisingly perfect match…and that Draco’s magical signature was worrisomely unique. 

No, this would be much, much more complicated than the month he’d spent palling around with Lucius when the elder Malfoy had been getting his magic under control. 

“Now,” Minerva went on, “About the two boys responsible for this travesty.” By that, everyone knew she meant the monsters Crabbe and Goyle. By the look on her face, she meant to feed them to one of Hagrid’s many ‘pets’. By the look on everyone else’s face, they agreed. 

Snape, however, took secret, malicious joy in throwing a further wrench into the process. In an almost light drawl, he seemed not to hear, instead informing everyone, “I have sent word to Lucius Malfoy concerning his boy’s condition. Since the paintings continue to show such an inexplicable attachment to Draco, and since I sent one of them to inform his father of the situation, I am uncertain of how or when the message shall be delivered.” Snape didn’t smile wolfishly, but he certainly felt the urge to as he imagined the protective, dangerous aristocrat reacting to the knowledge that his boy had been attacked. “I imagine he should be here within the hour, if not sooner.”

In the room, some of the professors swore, and even Minerva covered her face with a shaky hand. The day was promising to get even more interesting, it seemed, and although they’d miraculously avoided death so far, it looked like attempted murder was scheduled in the near future as soon as Lucius Malfoy learned that two boys had performed an illegal, harmful spell on his boy. 

 

~^~

 

Madame Pomfrey had pulled back the curtains, giving Harry a fond smile and a pat on the shoulder before leaving. That got annoying sometimes – Harry would honestly have preferred answers instead of smiles, but he’d been told that he looked younger than he was, and being a First Year probably didn’t help. Still, the healer had at least told Harry what was expected of him (to stay on his stool next to Draco and _not_ leave), and that Draco had been spelled unconscious but was otherwise okay. That last part – the part about being okay – Harry wasn’t super-sure about, but at least the room wasn’t full of magic. Stifling a yawn because it was getting late, the brown-haired boy wedged his heels against the crossbars of the stool and looked over his shoulder at Draco again. 

It was kind of nice, seeing a student very nearly as small as he was. Harry was awkward and bony, already all angles that promised height in a few years, but he still hadn’t eaten enough, it seemed, to make up for the missed meals at the Dursleys. Most other First Years had half a head of height on him, and some were even twice his weight, like those porridge-blogs Crabbe and Goyle. The pale-haired Malfoy boy, however, was of a height with Harry, and perhaps even lighter, although the slimness looked more natural on him. Harry was small thanks to malnutrition, but Draco was obviously small due to bone-structure and genetics. Like a hunting hawk, he exemplified slenderness and sleekness with elegance. 

“Potter.” 

The familiar, dreaded voice jerked Harry’s head back around, and if he’d been able to see the wide-eyed look of fright on his face, even he would have had to admit it was comical. Snape resisted the urge to snicker. Ah, the benefits of being feared by all and sundry… “Mr. Potter, I assume you have been told that wondering off in the near future is unacceptable?”

Refusing to either bristle or to cower (both were tempting ideas), Harry pushed his glasses up on his nose and answered, “Yes…Sir.” That last title always came slowly, mostly because he wasn’t used to it, but also a little bit because ‘Greasy Git’ was what most of the non-Slytherin students called Snape when the man wasn’t around. Still, Snape was intimidating, and Harry was more than smart enough to realize that politeness was necessary for survival. “Both Madame Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall told me that I was to stay. Right there. On this stool.” He was carefully watching Snape’s face, trying to read any flickers on it that might explain the reason behind these simple but immovable instructions. Honestly, Harry was bemused by it all. When Snape’s face didn’t twitch except maybe in the faintest hint of a smirk at Harry’s attempts at fishing for answers (drat, the man had read his intentions like a book), Harry gave up. However, since the man also hadn’t hexed him and was the only person standing still long enough to answer questions, the young Gryffindor added, “Other than that, no one is telling me anything.” 

_That_ nearly made Snape laugh. Bold little git. Sometimes the boy was honestly more amusing than annoying, although Snape would never admit to that any more than he’d admit to the mountain of worry and fear and outrage he felt just looking at his godson lying small and pale on the bed behind Harry. Already, Snape and The Boy Who Lived had gotten a reputation for getting along about as well as wet cats in a small barrel, but just the fact that Harry was responsible for Draco’s peace right now meant that Snape’s animosity was greatly reduced. It took effort not to let the softening temperament show on his face as he looked at the scene in front of him, which included Draco unconscious beneath starched white sheets, but also the Potter boy sitting next to him looking calm and confident if a little confused. 

So Snape decided that he do something surprising: he’d tell Potter everything without a fight. See how that spun the little lion’s head around. “Apparently, for some while now, students Crabbe and Goyle have been clumsily but effectively using a Magicseal spell on our Mr. Malfoy. It locked in his magic until, our of desperation, I imagine, Draco’s magic broke loose in the display that you were witness to.”

The Potions Professor’s calm, dry voice laid out the information like a bucket of water to the face, all of it coming so quickly that Harry nearly rocked back in his stool. He was left with the vague sensation of having been blindsided, and wondering if this was just some big joke. “What?”

“Did I not enunciate clearly enough the first time, Mr. Potter?” 

Even standing perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back in a manner that was strictly utilitarian and unthreatening, Professor Snape managed to exude an aura that made student’s gulp. Odd that this could make Harry nervous but walking into a storm of magic hadn’t. “No, Professor. Sorry, Professor,” he got out, deciding to just go back over the man’s words in his head to see if they made more sense I retrospect. 

Having worked with students for so long meant that Snape knew when to move on in the conversation – just quickly enough that the The Boy Who Lived would become The Boy Who Was Confused. Keeping one step ahead of students was a game that Snape loved to play even though the other professors chided him for it – but everyone had to have their vices. “By some miracle, your magic is complimentary to Draco’s, or there would have been even more problems.”

“Wait – what?” Harry jerked is head up again. He’d just understood more-or-less what Snape had said first, only to be caught up by this. It felt like being in Potions all over again, scrambling for the answer to one question and then suddenly finding out that Snape actually had another question up his sleeve. The boy looked to Snape, to Draco, and then back again, somewhere along the line forgetting that no one in their right mind babbled questions at Professor Snape. “What do you mean complimentary?”

Snape leveled a look at the first-year that had Harry clamping is mouth shut, but was quick to answer, “Did you not see what your magic did when you approached Draco? Or did you attribute your survival to brilliant, blind luck?”

For a moment, it looked like Potter would finally get riled enough to snap at him, fingers clenching on the rim of the stool he’d been perched on, but then the boy proved that he had more sense than his despicable father had. Instead, Severus was unexpectedly warmed to see curiosity much more like Lily’s in the boy’s eyes as Harry cocked his head, asking, “My magic did that? Seriously?”

The thought of Lily had the effect of unsettling Severus slightly, but also softening him a degree. He stopped maliciously trying to antagonize the boy and stood less like an imposing Evil Git and more like a sensible professor. “Draco’s has the misfortune of having all of his magic awake, as if he were an adult, Mr. Potter. Your magic acts as a counter to it. Think of waves in water.” It was a remarkably teachable moment when Snape saw a mug of liquid on the bedside table and went over to it, Harry spinning on his stool reflexively to watch. Had anyone been paying attention to the two, their eyes would have fallen out of their heads, such was the sudden truce between The Boy Who Lives and The Man Who Lived to Belittle Potters. Snape extended on long, dexterous finger and just touched the water’s surface in the middle, sending out perfect concentric rings of ripples. “Draco’s magic,” his low voice intoned patiently and succinctly. Despite Potter’s abysmal ability to focus in Potions, the boy was paying strict attention now, eyes narrowed in concentration a bit behind his glasses. “You magic,” Snape said next, and very precisely tapped his finger now against the outside of the mug, creating another ripple that hit the first so that, ultimately, everything became still. “A counter-wave. Does this make sense to you?”

It was strange, having Snape actually try to teach him, instead of just waiting to catch him out doing something wrong. Harry blinked in surprise to find that, yes, all of this did make sense to him. “So when I walked in, that’s what happened, yeah?” he asked, looking up. 

Snape straightened and went back to looming, albeit at more gentle loom. “Precisely, Mr. Potter. That is also why you have been instructed to stay in Draco’s immediate vicinity – should you leave his side, your effect will weaken until it is ultimately useless, and there will be a repeat of what you saw in the Slytherin common-room.” Snape blinked down at the boy who had suddenly become quite an apt – even tolerable – pupil. “Do you still understand.”

“Perfectly. After you stopped talking about Magicseals and ‘complimentary’ stuff, it all made a ton of sense,” Harry shrugged, wondering if Snape’s overall teaching methods could see a similar change to the analogical and simplistic. 

Maybe there was a bit of James in his boy after all, Snape reflected, but it was with a wry twist of his lips in amusement instead of animistic. He decided to let the slip into familiarity on Potter’s part go unremarked for now. He even bit back the acerbic remark that danced readily to the tip of his tongue, instead saying simply, “All of the other professors are aware of this, so things will be arranged.” And then he turned to leave, knowing that he’d promised to check for other suitable magical matches for his godson, although he doubted he’d have much luck. 

He was surprised to be called back. “Professor!” He turned around, one brow winging archly skyward, to find Harry leaning forward but still obediently glued to his seat. Or maybe Madame Pomfrey had shown some shrewd wisdom and used a sticking charm to keep him there. That woman surely had some Slytherin to her at times. “Can I know about the rest of it?”

“The rest of it?” Snape blinked. Now everyone was watching, as The Dungeon Bat paused, half-turned and halfway towards leaving, and The Boy Who Lived called out to him with questions instead of just letting the tall, shadowy man leave. Still, since Snape couldn’t imagine what Potter was referring to, this promised to be interesting. 

As it turned out, it _was_ interesting – but also remarkably mundane. Snape just wasn’t prepared for the sincere interest in Harry’s voice as the bespectacled first-year sat back a little and asked, “Well, the Magicseal and stuff…Sir. You mentioned it, and I’m still not super-sure what’s going on, but I’d like to. If I can.” Aware that he was being nosy, the boy had the good grace to look sheepish. 

Yep, now _everyone_ was looking at them. Snape had a definite reputation about being snarky towards students in general (actually, towards everyone) and everyone whispered darkly about his unfairness towards Harry Potter and Gryffindors. Therefore, everyone was holding their breath now in the expectation of something dreadful and explosive, or at least verbally cutting. It would ruin his whole reputation if they knew that Snape actually was considering nothing of the sort. 

The curiosity was just too much like Lily.

Deciding to choose avoidance (to save his scary reputation, if nothing else) Snape kept his tone clipped but minimally civil: “Madame Pomfrey will be able to explain everything to you, I’m sure.” But, just as he started to turn, he added loudly enough that it became as sort of warning/promise, “I’m sure you deserve to know, as you’ll be spending a lot of time around young Mr. Malfoy, and he will of course be privy to the details of his own condition.” 

Harry just heard the usual glass-and-splinters roughness that was typical of Snape, but those adults that had known the man for longer recognized the new razor-edge that lined his words. He’d been talking to Harry ostensibly, but really, he’d been directing a message at everyone else: They _would_ tell Harry and Snape’s godson what was going on. Or they’d find themselves with a very irate Potions Master on their hands. 

 

~^~

 

Thanks to Snape’s deft subliminal threat, Madame Pomfrey did, indeed, explain everything to Harry while also giving him something to eat. It was pretty late by this point, but nearly half of Hogwarts was still up because of all the ruckus. 

Chewing on a turkey sandwich while also chewing over the information he’d been given, Harry kicked his legs to the rhythm of Madame Pompfrey’s light humming. She’s told him about the Magicseal, her lips twisting in distaste and her eyes igniting with a truly rare spark of outrage that actually managed to move Harry more than the actual information had. Pretty much all of the story was known by this point, and Harry found himself thinking rather darkly that he hoped Crabbe and Goyle were dumped in a very dark hole for a very long time. In fact, he wished they’d die, but was aware of how very dark a thought that was. 

But Harry Potter had lived a very much darker life than most people realized, and therefore was much older than people gave him credit for, beneath the body of a child. Harshness made children grow up faster, and growing up faster had the added quality of giving a person an understanding of anger that naiveté usually hid. 

“Harry, child, do you want to step outside the curtain?” Madame Pomfrey’s voice got the Gryffindor’s attention. Draco was still kept unconscious by spells and exhaustion both, and lay still and pale while Madame Pomfrey’s hands held the blankets at his chin. The Malfoy boy had been divested of his shirt when last he’d been behind curtains and Harry on the other side on his stool, but since then Harry had moved his stool inside the ring of curtains so that he could eat his snack over the bedside table. 

Harry was about to oblige when there was a sudden heavy _whumph!_ of someone flooing in. 

And what an entrance it was. 

Harry had met the venerable Lucius Malfoy only once, and had been offset by the general aura of well-oiled danger about the man, all held in careful control beneath a veneer of courtliness. Now, pretty much all of that veneer was gone except the thinnest sheen like gauze held around crackling lightning. 

Madame Pomfrey had to have been expecting the arrival, for she straightened and faced Lucius, who spotted her seemingly from the first instance of stepping from the floo. His silver eyes were like his sons, only hard and sharp and dangerous. “How is my son?” He’d noticed the bed next to the healer with a flick of his eyes, ignoring Harry in favor of identifying Draco. Lucius was still holding himself like an upstanding member of society, all a gentleman, but that didn’t explain why everyone in the room drew back from him. He walked towards his son’s bed a little bit too fast to be completely calm, and Harry was embarrassingly glad that his perch was out of the way (near the bed, still, but against the wall at the far side). 

“He is sleeping, and in no pain or danger,” Madame Pomfrey wisely made clear from the onset, although it actually seemed that Lucius was beyond hearing her. Harry watched almost in fascination as the intense Malfoy patriarch came swiftly up to the bed, leaning over his son with eyes that immediately took in the bruise over his son’s cheek and the mottling of red around his neck. His hand reached out with gentleness that was almost shocking to touch his son’s pale hair. “Who did this?” Calm. Low. A voice that made silences shudder and vibrated through bones. 

For a moment, Madame Promfrey battled her tongue. She then clamped her mouth shut with a stubborn look. 

Then, to everyone’s surprise, Harry spoke up, causing Lucius to jerk his head to look at him and notice him for the first time. “Crabbe and Goyle.” Mostly, Harry had answered simply to be helpful…but it would have been a lie to say that part of him didn’t say it because he was angry, and because his sense of justice said that Lucius, of all people, deserved to know what had been done and by whom to his son. “I…ah…I don’t actually know their full names. Everyone just calls them-”

“Crabbe and Goyle,” Lucius finished or repeated, his cultured voice with that sibilant edge of menace adding a whole new layer to those names. “No, I think I know whom you’re referring to. Harry Potter, correct?”

“Mr. Malfoy,” Madame Pomfrey was now going in for damage control. Harry had no idea just how deadly Lucius could be, but Poppy did. “Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle put a Magicseal on your son. Draco broke through it, but we’re having to keep an eye on him to keep his magic under control. As for the two boys that did this to him, the Headmaster is looking into it.” 

The stately mask that was Lucius’s face shifted, nearly cracked; it was easy to see the fissure of pain and rage that nearly overtook the man. When he got his face back under control, it still looked more predatory than controlled. “Good for the Headmaster,” he said silkily and meant nothing of the sort. Straightening and still looking at his son with an storm of emotions in his hooded eyes, he asked Madame Pomfrey, “So my son is recovering?”

“Yes, Lord Malfoy.”

“And you’ll tell me when he awakens? I trust he is ensorcelled to sleep.” The man was astute, but in commenting about the ensorcelled sleep, his voice betrayed some small amount of temper, as the thought of _anyone_ putting any magic on _his boy_ riled Lucius on a basic level. And Crabbe and Goyle had put a Magicseal on him…

“Of course, Lord Malfoy,” was the congenial, sincere reply. 

Harry was watching all of this with a mix of fascination and trepidation, because the only time he’d met Lucius, the man had been the veritable epitome of control and style and relaxed grace. Now he was clearly holding onto those things by the tips of his fingers, and anything resembling ‘relaxed’ was nowhere to be found. Most of his grace had been replaced by something that, to Harry, looked an awful lot like ice. Maybe frostbite was a better analogy. 

With one last, long look at his son – a glance that would look detached to anyone further away, but was rife with emotions to those nearby like Harry and Poppy Pomfrey – Lucius said in a voice like water on steel, “I’ll go have a chat with the Headmaster then, shan’t I?” 

It wasn’t really a question. The man turned elegantly on one booted heal and strode out of the room. 

 

~^~

 

Of course the Headmaster was aware of anyone flooing in an out of Hogwarts. Not that he really shared that knowledge with anyone when it was necessary, but at least he was sensible enough to use that information to prepare. In this case, preparing meant calling Snape into his office, along with the nefarious Crabbe and Goyle boys. 

Snape hated being called anywhere in general – it felt too much like someone yanking him around on a short leash. With Dumbledore, of course, he put up with it, but things don’t improve when he enters the room and finds that he’s sharing it not only with the old coot but with Crabbe and Goyle, too. The menace that radiates off Snape could light candles. Or spontaneously reignite a phoenix, if Fawks were in a molting stage. As it is, the phoenix still trills lightly in either warning or chiding, looking towards Severus and wisely keeping an eye on him. 

“Ahh, Severus!” says Dumbledore with his usual warmth. He’s obviously been talking to the two bullies, and when they turn to look over their shoulders at Snape, they are almost too pale already to pale further at recognizing their Head of House. Still, they go from looking frightened to downright sickly with fear. “There’s a seat for you in the corner – that couch is comfy, I’m thinking.” The old man was still smiling, as if this were a picnic.

Out of anyone, Snape is decently aware of how devious Dumbledore could be beneath the sugary coating. He was like a bad candy. “Maybe I ask, precisely, why I am here, Headmaster?” he asked slowly, already deducing that he wasn’t hear to take care of the two Slytherins who had so unforgivably attacked one of their own. He let his eyes rake across them. “I assume you did not call me here to administer capital punishment, and I have already given you a truth serum to ascertain the truth of the events these two were a part of.”

“Ah, astute as always, Severus,” Dumbledore applauded pleasantly, still gesturing to the chair that was actually as far from his desk as you could probably get. “I have already administered the truth serum, and we were quite correct: they were holding a Magicseal on the poor Malfoy boy.” The usual, glittery pleasantness of Dumbledore’s eyes somehow solidified for a moment, becoming harder and sharper and colder than ice. But the look faded, hidden away beneath the usual pleasant look that so many people underestimated. “Actually, we are just waiting for the last member of our meeting. Then we can conclude business. I just thought you’d want to be here.”

Just on the verge of sitting down, Snape tensed. If he didn’t know something that Dumbledore was alluding to, that was a problem. And right now, he wasn’t sure what the old wizard was talking about. “Whom is this last member you are referring to?” he asked carefully and warily. 

“Just sit, Severus.”

Severus did, because the powerful side of Dumbledore was just a little too close to the surface this evening, and that never boded well. 

And that moment, passageway slide open, and Snape put two-and-two together rather quickly. “Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore greeted, not smiling this time. 

Lucius was just as Snape remembered: elegant, graceful, dangerous. Powerful. He swept into the room with the effect of someone dragging a thunderstorm on their coattails, something about him crackling until Snape expected to smell ozone. A very few times, Snape had had the treat of seeing Lucius incandescently mad, but the aristocrat had somehow topped all of those times now. Then again, Snape shouldn’t have been surprised: nothing mattered more to the Malfoy patriarch than his son. 

“Why are these wastes of skin still breathing?” was the aristocrat’s opening line. 

Severus relaxed back into his chair, preparing to enjoy the show. 

Dumbledore was a planner: he stood up now, having within his reach two despicable boys and the man who would very likely slay them without a qualm because of the pain they’d inflicted on his boy. Anywhere else in the castle, that slaughter would probably have been done already – only Dumbledore’s presence prevented murder right now, which had doubtlessly been the plan. Killing children willy-nilly (as vicious as those children were) was generally frowned upon by society, so Dumbledore had had to thinking of _something_ to prevent the elder Malfoy from coming in like Death itself. Snape just wondered if the Headmaster realized that ‘something’ might end up being a duel, because Lucius, while usually very controlled, was an absolute viper when he was pushed over the brink like this. 

By the way the omnipresent sparkling of Dumbledore’s eyes had hardened again, maybe he does realize this possibility. “That’s hardly a way to start a conversation, Lucius,” he chides, but carefully. 

At that point, it becomes clear why Severus is present, because he knows Lucius better and therefore sees the faint shift of muscles that means he’s gone over the edge and is going to attack. The Lord Malfoy hasn’t noticed Severus (tucked out of the way on his couch), so the Potions Master just raises his voice enough to make his presence known sharply, “Lucius!”

The surprise, more than anything, manages to prevent what would have been a devastating duel. Dumbledore, Snape knows for certain, is vastly stronger than Lucius, but Lucius angry was a wizard not to mess with, because it was a given that he’d mess a person up even if he were losing. Sometimes, a dragon falling was still the dragon that burned down the town. The lethal power that had been curling up the inside of Lucius’s spine like a poison suddenly stutters as his blonde head whips around to see Severus watching him with tense dark eyes. 

Keeping his voice calm (as if it were not a distinct…and rather inviting…possibility that Lucius might duel the headmaster and take out Crabbe and Goyle as collateral damage), Snape hurries to make use of the attention he now has, “Dumbledore has apparently ascertained the entirety of the story from these two vicious little trolls-” Ah, it felt so good to call students ‘trolls’ and not be reprimanded. “-And was about to explain.” He cocked and eyebrow, knowing that his drawl tone usually got to Lucius. “I suspect that you want answers more than you want to end up in Azkaban?”

Slowly, slowly, Snape watched Lucius regain some semblance of calm. That almost draconian viciousness faded from the back of his pale grey eyes, and after a moment, his muscles relaxed and the lithe aristocrat was smirking his ironic, twisted grin. “Who said anything about Azkaban?” He made a show of looking back to Dumbledore, too, who still wasn’t smiling, but Lucius wasn’t fazed. Straightening out his robes with fastidious movements of his elegant hands – hiding the fact that he’d been reaching earlier for his wand, had been centimeters from it – he turns back to face the Headmaster as if nothing is wrong. This is just an unexpected pleasure. A chat. 

In fact, his voice is so light and calm that it’s almost sickening, and Snape rolls his eyes because Lucius is show-boating. Then again, its either that or destroy something, and that’s definitely a poorer way of dealing with soul-tearing anger. “What did these two have to say then?”

Very calmly, but much more soberly, Dumbledore replied without looking at either Crabbe or Goyle (who were well on their way to shaking themselves into puddles of mortified goo). He explained the whole story, of which pretty much everything was known: the Magicseal, the bullying, the ultimate repercussions of that when Draco’s magic retaliated in full-force, breaking free but also maturing far too quickly. Lucius’s eyes had glazed over with lethal ice, and he barely seemed to be listening by the time Dumbledore concluded with Harry’s involvement. 

Finally, Crabbe couldn’t keep quite any longer. He’d been crying for ages and very possibly had soiled himself with fear, but now he wanted to do anything to avoid the anger of Lucius Malfoy, a man whose reputation preceded him. “It wasn’t our idea!” Crabbe wailed, and Goyle looked liked he wanted to tell the other boy to can it, but Lucius was already stepping forward. 

“Whose idea was it, then?” he purred slowly, and it was the most dangerous voice that Snape honestly knew, besides the Dark Lord’s and maybe Rosier’s crazy voice. Dumbledore was standing on the other side of his desk, and his was within easy reach as he eyed Lucius. Severus, too, prepared for the unsavory probability of fighting his old friend, a task made more distasteful by the fact that he honestly wanted Lucius to win. It was a villain-thing. Dumbledore could say that Severus had returned to the side of good all he wanted, but part of Snape would always see morality as a thing that (more than occasionally) got in the way of doing what needed to be done. 

Lucius seemed to have truly calmed down, however…which was worrisome. He leaned close to Crabbe, every strands of pale-blonde hair perfectly in place, smile likewise perfect. Maybe, if Vincent Crabbe hadn’t answered, things would have gotten ugly. 

“M-M-My dad – our dads,” the boy stuttered in utter terror, chin trembling enough to make his fat little jowls quiver, too. 

As easily as that, Lord Malfoy stood up straight again, but in a movement like a predator settling back on its haunches. His eyes were distant, thoughtful…calculating. Almost distractedly he looked to the Headmaster, “I assume these boys will be expelled? And properly punished?”

“The Magicseal they performed is illegal,” Dumbledore said heavily, but without regret. Maybe there was anger there. “They will face a trial, although with their young age considered, what will ultimately become of them is uncertain.” Crabbe and Goyle whimpered. “They are already expelled from this school, for all intents and purposes. No child that does this to another should ever be taught magic.”

“Hm,” was all Lucius said, nodding and appreciative. Severus was watching carefully from behind lidded eyes. “I will leave it in your capable hands then. Good evening, Headmaster. I’d say it was a pleasure-” He grinned, sharp and lopsided and ironic. “-But that would be a horrible lie.” 

“A good evening to you as well, Lucius. Feel free to make yourself comfortable in the guest-wing. You can stay there with Draco as long as you wish, after Madame Pomfrey releases him from the hospital wing,” said Dumbledore steadily. 

Replies seemed beneath Lucius, who simply nodded one more time and turned to leave. Snape immediately levered himself to his feet. “I’ll accompany you,” he said in a voice that subtly broached no argument. 

For a moment, Lucius paused to give him an arch look (to which Severus was totally immune, after their long years of association), but read something in Severus’s dark (generally unreadable) eyes that made him accept the company. “Of course, old friend. If you don’t mind a jaunt down to the hospital wing. I would like to see if my son is awake.”

Severus agreed as readily as the Old Bat ever did, because there was a glint about Lucius that Severus wanted to watch – that glint of a honed blade just before it bit. Lucius was a man who sunk his teeth into things viciously and guarded what was his jealously, and there was no way he was letting this go so easily. He wanted to warn Dumbledore of this, but he also wanted to talk to Lucius…

He figured that all would be best served if he simple stayed around the elder Malfoy. Why?

Because he figured, if nothing else, he’d make a good buffer before Lucius tore through him and tore up the entirety of the wizarding world to reap out vengeance of what had been done to his son.

 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long gap between updates! I'm mostly updating my 00Q fics, and would have forgotten about this one, but some nice commenter reminded me XD 
> 
> So, anyway - an update! :D I hope you enjoyed the lethal creature which is Lucius. 
> 
> Future warning: I'm not sure what I'm going to do about Narcissa...I'm not even sure if I'm going to have her in the story at all. If she is, she will probably NOT be likable. Just so ya' know :D


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucius meets his boy's attackers... After that escapade, Draco, his dad, Severus, Poppy Pomfrey, AND Harry all get to chat a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...a bit of action and a bit of fluff :D

~^~

 

Severus walked quietly by Lucius’s side, something he was good at doing. There was a list of things that the infamous Professor Snape was good at: looming, sneaking up on students and faculty alike, informing people that they were idiots with nothing more than a glare. He waited until Lucius – his face still an aristocratic mask, his posture erect and apparently unaffected by any of todays events – suddenly sighed gustily, and his façade of calm and control faltered a little. 

“Draco will be fine, Lucius,” Severus said then, the low harmonics of his voice thrumming in the quiet, “I checked on him myself.”

“I did as well,” breathed the elder Malfoy, suddenly sounding old and strained. Angry tension had radiated from his bones before, but now it was simply the intense, immutable worry of a father over their only child. “Tell me Severus. Tell me what you know, but not in the Headmaster’s words,” he said in a tone that was a close as the Pureblood ever got. 

Anyone else would have been shocked by both the question and the tone, but Severus Snape was one of the few people who had seen Lucius at both his highest and his lowest before. It was Snape who knew that Lucius had weaknesses he showed no one else, Snape who knew that secretly Lucius and Narcissa stood on another only by avoidance. Snape was tied to the Malfoys by being Draco’s godfather, but also because he was closer to the Malfoy patriarch than almost anybody alive. “It is mostly as he said,” Severus was forced to agree, although agreeing with Dumbledore always secretly left a bad taste in his mouth, “I’m not sure what I can add.”

“You’re the best Potions Master I have ever encountered,” Lucius managed to flash a jaded smile, “Surely that analytical mind of yours can be put to work on something other than measuring and brewing.”

From most people, that would have been a bit of an insult, but Severus and Lucius were used to this kind of banter – both were rather acerbic men, even if Lucius hid his thorned tongue better with the smooth honey of manners. So Snape just snorted and almost smirked. “It’s like what you went through in your youngers years, coming into your magic too early. Draco is even younger than you were, and his magic is stronger, however.”

“Stronger?” Lucius tried to keep his tone controlled – even in front of friends, that was his way – but equal mixtures of fear and intense pride mixed in his voice. The blond wizard clasped his hands behind his back in a mimicry of Snape’s posture to hide any shaking of his hands. 

Snape missed nothing, but also pretended he missed everything. He simply continued in his grim drawl, “Considering how the awakening of his adult magic came about, it’s truly a rather dangerous situation – for everyone else as much as Draco.” Severus allowed himself a truly vindictive smirk befitting a Dark Wizard. “If those two gets of Crabbe and Goyle hadn’t escaped the room, your son would have killed them without even trying.”

Now pride was definitely on Lucius’s sharp, elegant features, sharp and vicious. He said nothing, however. Tactful, as always. 

Snape was about to break that tactful mask, however, and couldn’t quite hide the way an impish smile was pulling at the sides of his mouth at the thought. “Do you know, we’ve found a match for his magic already, someone whose magical resonance will keep Draco safe and in control while his magic settles in.”

Understandably, Lucius was pleased – it had been a torment until Severus’s magic had been matched with Lucius, so obviously it was a good thing that Draco was already in safe hands. But whose? “And which of your Slytherins has magic to match my boy’s?” he asked with a polite but interested smile. 

Oh, this was going to be fun. “Slytherin?” Snape feigned ignorance, then dropped the other show, “Think wider.” 

Now Lucius was beginning to look more suspicious and less amused. “A Ravenclaw, then? Or has a professor been found as a match?” Neither a truly bad circumstance, all told. 

“Draco has a very, very unique magical signature, Lucius,” Severus relented to tell him, “And because of the power of his unleashed magic, an exact match was needed. I’m still looking, but so far, only one match has been found. Actually, he found himself.” 

Now Lucius actually stopped walking, right outside the hospital wing. “What in Merlin’s name do you mean ‘found himself’?” the Pureblood demanded, finally getting tired of games. 

Severus was far from done, however, and simply lifted a sardonic brow and delivered what could possibly be the most amusing punch-line of his life: “A certain son of James Potter actually waltzed right in when your son’s magic was loosed, and judging by the way the magical storm stopped, I’d say that _Harry Potter_ has magic that complements your son’s.” 

Oh, the look on Lucius’s face was worth it. 

 

~^~

 

After the brief meeting with Lucius Malfoy, Madame Pomfrey kept glaring at Harry as if he’d committed some sort of crime. Deep down, Harry probably knew that her look was because he’d told Mr. Malfoy about Crabbe and Goyle, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel guilty. 

Apparently realizing that whatever Harry didn’t know now about Draco’s condition, he’d know eventually, Madame Promfrey just sighed once and then asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to just step outside the curtain, Harry dear?”

Harry wondered why half of the people here wanted him to stay close the Draco, and then the other half seemed to want to shoo him off. “Um…is there a reason I should leave, Madame Pomfrey? I’m happy here-” He kicked a heel against the leg of his stool, which was already well-situated by the bed. “-already, honestly.”

“Okay, Harry,” Poppy gave in, having ultimately expected that answer, “Since you’ll be sticking pretty close to Draco for some time after this, I suppose you’d know eventually anyway.”

“Know what?” asked the bespectacled boy in what was now growing wariness. 

“Sometimes, when someone is locked under powerful magic as Draco was, and when they escape it so…” There really wasn’t another word. “…Brutally, it leaves marks behind.” And with that, the healer did what she’d started to do before Lucius’s arrival, and pulled the blankets back from Draco’s pale chest. 

Harry was not proud to recall that his eyes kind of bugged out of his head. He stared, eyebrows shot up into his hairline, at the marks left behind by the Magicseal as Draco had burned through it – this was what the Magicseal actually looked like, spells transmuted into visible, burned-in symbols. 

The marks marched in abrogated lines like bones up his sternum, stopping at the hollow of his throat and his solar plexus and radiating like cracks form that central line to create mirrored images on either side of his young chest. Where the middle line stopped both at the top of Draco’s breastbone and at the base, the lines terminated in stylized arrays like phoenix feathers, for the fiery petals of some doomed flower. The starburst radiating outwards had four tendrils longer than the rest: two stretching outwards like stiletto blades to reach for the outer points of Draco’s fragile-looking collarbone, and two similar, stylized spikes descending at an angle that just lapped off the bottom of his ribs. The other rays looked like shorter versions, similar to the repeating, narrowing vertebrae of a snake.

The fact that it looked like someone had branded it from the inside out and then scraped silver dust into the wound made what could have been beautiful into something simply shocking. 

Madame Pomfrey had already used spells to alleviate what she could, but it even with Harry around, she was being cautious about using magic around someone whose own magic was in such a prematurely hyperactive state. Right now, assured that at least the sleeping spell was working fine, Poppy rubbed ointment with gentle hands into the wounds. “Are you all right, Harry?” she asked gently when she noticed that the boy hadn’t asked anything, and if Poppy knew anything about first-year boys, it was that they were rarely quiet. 

“This-” Harry swallowed, getting control over a voice that had gone low and somewhat hoarse with disbelief. “-His own housemates did this to him? Why? Is he going to be stuck with it?” At first he’d thought that the strange, silver coloration was something to do with the healing process, but the more he looked, the less likely that seemed. 

“Sometimes, even children can do abominable things,” said Madame Pomfrey with a soft, grave voice, speaking as a healer who had seen many things – good and bad – over her years in the profession. “And chances are…yes,” she admitted, “Draco will be stuck with scars, at least for a very long while. They’ll fade, but only quite slowly.”

“Man, but his dad isn’t going to be happy about that,” Harry found himself saying candidly. 

Madame Pomfrey actually shivered. “No, I don’t imagine he is,” she conceded. _‘Although, seeing as I don’t have any new patience coming in, there’s at least hope that Lucius hasn’t gone into a killing frenzy over this.’_ She stopped, considered. _‘Yet.’_

“Draco hasn’t woken up yet, so…I’m guessing he doesn’t know about this, does he?”

Poppy looked up from her work, surprised by how astute the Potter boy was but even more surprised – pleasantly so – by the compassion that was softening his voice. His green eyes looked sad but sort of understanding as they looked up from the Magicseal marks to the healer’s face. 

“No…in fact, that’s a talk I’m not looking forward to, since it will probably include Lucius Malfoy at the same time,” Madame Pomfrey said tightly, straightening. There was really no avoiding it, however, because Lucius would want to talk to his son, and once Draco was awake it wouldn’t be long before someone noticed the scars on his chest. And the fact that he had a similar set on his back…

Harry’s eyes got wide again as Madame Pomfrey began gently rolling the Slytherin boy over, and – knowing that physical activity was usually a good focus for energetic Gryffindor boys – she asked, “Can you give me a hand, Harry?”

Still in a state of shocked bewilderment, Harry slid off his stool mostly as a knee-jerk reaction to being given instructions. He immediately grew embarrassed, not knowing where to put his hands and painfully worried that he’d hurt his fellow first-year more. But Poppy was a good teacher, and all Harry really had to do was help ease Draco down as comfortably as possible without tangling up any limbs or suffocating him with the pillow. It sound funny but it wasn’t. In fact, Harry was pretty sure that if Draco weren’t spelled into unconsciousness, he’d be in a lot of pain from lying on his new scars, and the Gryffindor boy winced in sympathy. 

“He’ll be okay, Harry,” Poppy soothed, seeing his face and smiling placatingly. “You just stick next to him,” she found herself adding, feeling it was the right thing to say, “and do what you can, and he’ll heal up.” 

Taking this to heart, Harry nodded, looking down self-consciously and finding himself looking at that ivory-haired head. Draco looked peaceful at the moment, if you ignored the bruise over his cheekbone. And the marks on his back from the Macicseal being broken. It was much like the one of his chest, with a central network of patterns working its way up his spine from his nape down to the base of his ribcage. The radiating lines were shorter, however, except for two that reached like grasping hands for the top edges of his graceful shoulder-blades. Poppy soothed ointment into the silver-stained marks as gently as she had on his front, and this time, she just maneuvered the Slytherin boy back to his side. “I’ll probably wake him up when his father comes,” she sighed, then looked towards the door with a rather resigned look to finish morosely, “which should be soon. At least the hospital wing is rather empty to day.”

Harry was glad for that, too, but for different reasons. He didn’t realize how possible it was for Lucius to turn the school into a battleground – with the Malfoy patriarch as a one-man army – but what Harry did know what that he liked empty rooms more than crowded ones. Too many people made his magic itch. Half of the reason he’d been to out of sorts when he’d reached the Sorting Hat at the beginning of the year had been because the intensity of all the people in the Great Hall had nearly driven him mental. Draco’s magic might have been ratcheted up to full-power right now in a dangerous way, but Harry’s magic wasn’t a walk in the park for him either – it was powerful enough to be uncomfortably sensitive, and he hadn’t found a way around that yet. That had been one good thing about the Dursleys: no magic to grate on him there!

“Actually, Harry dear, if Lucius comes in, you might want to make sure you’re on your best behavior, all right?” Poppy almost-pleaded. She wasn’t sure that Lucius would be dangerous to Harry…but honestly, Poppy wasn’t sure what Lucius would do at all. Rumors as thick as flies on a corpse said that Lucius was about as Dark as a wizard could get, and that as all without the added antagonism of his boy being abused. “Stay close, of course, but no one will think less of you-”

“If I keep my mouth shut and pretend I don’t exist?” Harry finished with a smile that hide a sort of humor that Poppy couldn’t figure out. She felt like there was some joke to this, or as if the boy had said this before on other occasions. Either way, the somewhat hollow smile softened and Harry was just a sweet boy again. “I understand, Madame Pomfrey. I’m sure that I wouldn’t want some strange kid budgering in if I were talking to my hurt son,” Harry assured her with more adult qualities than boy’s his age usually possessed. 

At that point Harry yawned so widely that he nearly unsettled his own glasses, and Madame Pomfrey laughed. “Actually, Harry, how about if you just try to get some sleep? You’ve been such a dear, but I imagine its nearly morning ad you’ve been awake this whole time.”

Harry’s eyes rounded out. “Do I still have potions tomorrow morning?” he asked with totally sincere horror at the realization. 

Fully aware of Snape’s reputation among the first-years (nay – all of the students), Poppy smirked but alleviated the boy’s fears. “Since Snape likely has been up as well, and since this event has probably shaken up nearly the whole school, chances are high that tomorrow might be declared a day off, of sorts. And if not, as the Head Healer here, I will exempt you from classes. So – will you lie down now?”

Uncertain but definitely eager to close his eyes (before he fell of the stool, which was getting uncomfortable finally), Harry looked back at the empty bed behind him, next to Draco’s bed. “How far away is too far away?”

“That bed will be fine, dear. In the future, if you just watch Draco, you should be able to notice when you’re getting our of range.” 

This was sounding more and more complicated by the minute. Harry was used to being tasks that were ridiculously out of his skill-range – the Dursleys had loved to give him impossible tasks, just so that they could punish him later – but never with someone else’s life and health depending on it. Harry looked worriedly at Draco, not wanting to hurt the boy with his mistakes. But Madame Pomfrey had said that the adjacent bed wasn’t too far away, so he traipsed over to it. He pretty much only took of his shoes before collapsing like any tired boy and half-nodding off instantly. Poppy smirked fondly as she watched over the corner of her eye. Boys. 

After that, she had a bit more peace and quiet, and then the door opened again to reveal none other than Lucius Malfoy. Poppy straightened up to her full (but admittedly not very intimidating) height, bracing herself, but it appeared that Severus was in tow – maybe he’d served as a calming influence, because Lucius didn’t look like he’d murdered anyone. Then again, in Poppy’s opinion, if anyone could commit a brutal homicide without getting any evidence on themselves, it was Lucius. 

Right now, the man looked a little shocked and flustered, and Severus almost looked like he was smirking. What had those two been talking about? Poppy noticed that Lucius’s eyes found his boy first (obviously) but then wondered very briefly before finding and fixing briefly on Harry nearby. 

Harry, Poppy noted for herself, was awake. The door to the hospital wing contained spells to keep it quiet for the peace of the patients, and Lucius had by no means attempted to slam it open, but the Potter boy had come awake instantly already. He now sat up uncertainly in bed, realizing that he’d been noticed but unsure if that made him part of this or not. 

After his eyes narrowed unreadably, the pale-haired aristocrat finished his walk to Draco’s bedside. Once there, he gentled and seem to grow…smaller. Quite suddenly the powerful, dangerous man looked vulnerable, as if someone had found the one chink in his armor and stabbed right through it. He put a hand out, gently touching Draco’s sleeping face; he winced and a reflection of his earlier rage danced across his eyes as he took in the bruise. The blankets were pulled up again, so he had yet to see the real mark. 

Poppy wasn’t looking forward to when that happened. 

“What is your take on this, Madame?” said Lucius formally and politely, as if he hdan’t surely heard this all a dozen different ways by now. It was sad: it was almost as if the man were hoping that one story would finally be a good one, and erase all the damage that had been done. 

And so Harry heard the whole story again, some of it new. He pretended he was in his closet while the Dursleys had company, and did quite a good job of just disappearing, he thought. Well, unless you counted the way that Severus never ignored him – Harry effectively dropped off everyone else’s radar, but the Slytherin professor seemed to have senses like a fox, and the temperament that made it impossible for him to just ignore a student. 

Unless he wanted to. Like when Hermione raised her hand for the fortieth time to answer a question. 

With Severus’s silent observance, Harry’s careful invisibility, and Madame Pomfrey’s calm, soothing tone, Lucius was informed of his child’s condition from a medical perspective – including, finally, knowledge of the scars. Harry, whose magic was much more sensitive than people gave him credit for, hiss in a tight breath as he felt the man’s core suddenly tense and flair like an oven heating up. “Show me,” the man said in a voice as impenetrable as stone. 

“If you please, Madame Pomfrey,” Severus stepped in fluidly to smooth over the demand, for once being the polite one with his thunder-low, smooth voice. 

With a nod and a tense, saddened frown, Poppy pulled back the blankets. This time, it was Lucius who sucked in a breath, and Harry mentally thought, ‘ _Uh-oh,’_ as he sensed an even greater increase in the magical storm rising through the Malfoy patriarch’s skin. Just as he had whenever he’d seen Dudley or Uncle Vernon working themselves into a rage, Harry quietly and subtly prepared for trouble. 

Lucius proved that he had control as much as power, however, and the only sign of his wrath was a silent clenching of his fist and the helpless rage making his pale-grey eyes go moist. Severus, who had not seen the marks, now had both eyebrows raised in a rare show of surprise. 

“They’ll fade with time,” Poppy assured the boy’s father, but she let her tone show more pessimism than optimism for once – subliminally informing Lucius that it would take a good long time, if they ever disappeared entirely. “Do you want me to wake him now? He’s been asleep this whole time, and the sooner he learns everything, too, the better.” She indicated the marks, and suddenly everyone realized that they would be just as much a shock to Draco as to everyone else. Harry grimaced in sympathy. 

“Please,” Lucius said in a tight voice that was precariously close to cracking, and Severus just stood near him. The Potions Master didn’t have any reason for being there that Harry could see, yet he’d shown neither impatience nor any sign of leaving. The dark circles under his dark eyes said that he’d been up easily as long as Harry had, so the man had to be yearning for a soft bed and a long rest, too. But, like an onyx wall, he just stayed where he was with perfect calm. 

A quick wave of her wand and a soft word, and Harry found himself holding his breath. He was on the bed behind Draco and Poppy, but he saw when the ivory-haired boy’s bare shoulder twitched and tensed, the subtle sign of awakening.

What followed made Harry embarrassed, because he was pretty sure that it was personal and that he hadn’t been invited to listen in – if he wasn’t required to stay nearby and prevent a magical melt-down, he would have quietly slunk away. 

It was a private moment. Lucius was angry, and frustrated, and coming down from a level of fear and worry that no parent wants to experience. Draco was surprisingly calm, but that was strangely painful to watch. Harry knew from experience what bottling up emotions looked like, and that it was rarely a good thing. In fact, _Lucius_ emoted more than his son did during the exchange, except for the two times when Draco cried. 

The first time he cried was actually right after he woke up and sat up, and it was more of a case of shock as everything flooded back to him at the same time that the present surroundings hit him: the hospital wing, his father, Madame Pomfrey (thankfully not Harry), Severus…and his scars. Draco held it together until Lucius, with the grace only he could have, slid down onto the bed and ushered his boy into his arms. Poppy left it up to the father to explain, and Lucius spoke in little spurts about the scars while also holding Draco close. A few times, the man’s hand or arm brushed the scarred marks on Draco’s back and Draco’s chest was painfully pressed to his father’s robes, but whatever Poppy had put on them must have numbed any sort of pain, because father and son didn’t pull away for quite some time. 

By then, Draco had control of himself, and kept control of himself as his father – more angry at the situation than Draco, clearly, but angry nonetheless – berated him for not telling an adult about this problem sooner.

And Draco, looking down and too the side – giving Harry a perfect image of his sharp-featured face in profile – said with perfect control and quiet pride, “I had to prove that I could handle myself. Just as myself.” His head lifted, and Harry could only watch, strangely fascinated by the level of pride on that calm mask of a face. “And I did.”

Lucius made an obvious effort to hold back his frustration, succeeding after a moment, although his tone still held exasperation as he tried to show Draco the ludicrousness of such an action. But Draco (who eventually looked his father in the eye and argued even _more_ fiercely) wouldn’t back down, and eventually an understanding light started to dawn in the Malfoy patriarch’s eyes. It was something akin to wonderment as he began to grasp the intense pride and inner strength that had driven his child to such actions. Harry was pretty sure he’d understood already, but for different reasons. Adults hadn’t exactly been go-to people in his life, so dealing with things himself just made sense. Of course Draco would have done that. Lucius seemed to most easily conceive of the need to act independently and prove oneself and develop self-confidence, however. 

And when Draco said, still defiant and his marked back as stiff as a ramrod, “There’s no way that anyone in Slytherin will mess with me again,” Lucius just smile abroad, slow, sincere smile. 

“No, my child,” he said in a voice that held a powerful affection, and well as a vicious sort of agreement, “I don’t think they will.” And when his hand affectionately caressed Draco’s head again, the Slytherin boy cried for the second time, and Harry looked down to pull at a thread on his trousers, wanting to be anywhere but here. 

“Mr. Potter.” 

Every first-year was trained early on to jump like an electrocuted rabbit when they heard their name said by Professor Snape, and Harry nearly broke his neck whipping his head up. Everyone was looking at him now, even Draco, with brows drawn low over his [slightly tear-reddened] grey eyes as he noticed the Gryffindor boy for the first time. 

Unaffected by the embarrassment he was obviously causing Harry, Severus went on without hesitation, “As Gryffindors rarely enjoy sitting still for so long as you have, it’s probably a perfect time to formally explain your presence here to young Draco.”

“What _is_ Potter doing here, Uncle Severus?” Draco turned to Professor Snape to ask, and Harry’s eyebrows jumped up at the familiar address, not knowing of any relation between the two. Draco was tense and uneasy, and as he looked to Harry again, he also was fighting embarrassment because (while he had pants at least) he was quite shirtless, his new scars obvious. 

“Potter is here because, without his presence, your magic would likely be turning his room into the eye of a magical storm,” said the Potions Master plainly, “And while impressive, that event is dangerous for all involved. Except-” Dark eyes flicked over to Harry, who’d stood up and walked over shyly to the foot of Draco’s bed. “-Potter. The resonance at which his magic works is a direct counter to yours. In essence…” Severus paused, letting his words sink in as if this were just any other lesson on a class full of questionably intelligent students. “…If Potter were to be anywhere but here, you’d lose the control you have over your magic. Do you understand me, Draco?”

A little shocked by the news (as well as by the imperative tone Severus used at the end, leaning to look Draco in the eye), the Slytherin boy blinked owlishly and looked rapidly between Harry and Snape a few times. “Seriously?!” he finally squeaked, and it was hard to tell if he was appalled or just stuck by disbelief. 

“For reasons unknown, Potter was informed how to sneak into the Slytherin common-room, and then proceeded to do so despite the fact that your magic was making a battleground of it,” answered Severus with his naturally questionable tact. Poppy looked like she wanted to smack her palm against her forehead at the man’s bluntness, but Lucius simply looked resigned. Suddenly, Severus realized something, and his head came up before dark raptor eyes focused on Harry again. “How is it that you made it to the Slytherin common-room, when the paintings were blocking nearly every entrance and exit in the entire school?”

Harry decided to leave the Weasley twins and their illicit information out of this. “The paintings let me. I…I wanted to know what was going on, and I guess I bothered the Fat Lady until she let me slip out.” He shrugged, hoping that his vagueness would be interpreted in a positive fashion and he wouldn’t be required to explain about the secret passage. He knew for a fact that he wasn’t good at lying, but avoiding the truth – that he could do. 

Draco was looking at him strangely, and at the mention of the paintings, he seemed to inexplicably relax a little. Then, still staring at Harry, the pale-haired first-year explained distractedly and in a soft, soft voice, “The paintings were protecting me.”

“What?” Lucius turned, bemused. 

Draco’s eyes focused again and he seemed to realize what he’d said. “The paintings…they like me,” he said in obvious embarrassment, but managed not to fidget – because a Malfoy didn’t fidget. Harry wondered how he managed it. 

“Well, that a explains a lot,” Severus snorted, now causing everyone to look at _him,_ but that didn’t bother the difficult man in the slightest. “I was informed off your condition by a very determined painting, and I’m sure that the other professors would agree that every painting we’ve seen this evening has show various levels of stress and or _violent protectiveness.”_  
It was hard to tell if the flush on Draco’s pale cheeks stemmed from his embarrassment or from a fluttering joy, but Harry thought that the self-controlled boy nearly broke into a manic giggle before he clamped down on it. Then, suddenly, he was yawning. 

Madame Pomfrey took that as her cue to take over again. “All right, everyone – enough explanations! There will be enough time for more talking tomorrow – after everyone has gotten some sleep! Shoo!” 

And even though Madame Pomfrey was nothing to fear by size or strength alone, when she shooed someone in her home turf, they listened. In what felt like mere minutes, Harry and Draco were in bed and Severus and Lucius leaving. Severus left with very little ceremony, just there and gone in a blink. Lucius said goodnight more patiently, telling Draco that he was staying in the castle, not far at all, and assuring his boy that he was not angry with him. Harry also heard the adult wizard say that all of this would be ‘settled’…and by the man’s tone, Harry figured that ‘settling things’ was dangerous business. Pressing his forehead to Draco’s and pulling back to give his son one last kiss on the forehead and an affectionate soothing of his hair, and the Malfoy patriarch left as well. 

Then Poppy finally turned down the light in the hospital wing, and breathed a sigh of relief. The day had ended (morning, really), and no one had died. She had the Malfoy heir and The Boy Who Lived tucked away in bed, sleeping and on-the-mend if not entirely healthy. It wasn’t her best day, but it was still a success in her books. 

 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Severus was super-fun to write in this one (with his mix of tact and tactlessness), as was the near-homicidal rage of protective-papa-Lucius! Hopefully the next chapter will see more Draco-Harry bonding. I hope that I hinted well enough that BOTH of them have rather unique and powerful magics.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus catches wind of some secret plans of Lucius's - and invariably involves himself. 
> 
> Harry and Draco get a taste of what their foreseeable future will be like, with them stuck in each other's company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm so slow at posting - if you like 00Q fics, that one of mine is getting updated waaaay faster XP
> 
> Lucius and Severus were, yet again, very fun to write :3

~^~

 

It was late (or really early, to be perfectly correct), but Draco’s eyes remained open, pockets of silver watching the ceiling. To say the day had been too much to swallow was an understatement. Part of him just wants to run to wherever his father is sleeping and cry into his shoulder like he used to.

The stronger part continued lying where he is, face calm, quiet, and collected like a Malfoy. That part of him is viciously proud of what he did, and he can’t feel regret that he almost killed Crabbe and Goyle – he just can’t. The only regret he feels is personal, and it hits him when he moves a hand to touch the scars on his chest, left uncovered because they would apparently heal better that way. Even with the salve on them, they sting, but that’s not the only reason Draco had barely bring himself to touch them. 

Being berated by his father had been hard, especially because pride was a big deal with Draco. He hated very few things as much as he hated being lectured like he was a little kid…even if he had to admit that he deserved it a little. Still, it had been frustrating to try and get his father to understand why Draco had _had_ to do this. On his own. Bugger the consequences. 

“You asleep?” he asked in his Malfoy voice, because the other thing that had made this day strange and difficult was still in the room and somehow Draco just knew that Harry bloody Potter couldn’t be asleep. And then, right on cue, the boy in the next bed rolled over. 

“Um…no, not really.” 

Draco had been tensed, ready for teasing tones, but Potter didn’t say anything else. So Draco, wanting to face anything that threatened him immediately and directly, pushed, “Not going to mention how I cried like a girl today?”

Potter propped himself up on one elbow, his eyes a faint gleam in the dark as he blinked nearsightedly. “Uh – no?” he replied, obviously not following. 

Off-balance, Draco tried again, because people had teased him with far less blackmail material than Potter had now. “You’re my babysitter, it sounds like-” Honestly, the knowledge of how much he depended on the Potter boy terrified him right now, and Draco had to contain a wince. “-And you don’t resent that?”

“Draco, it’s the middle of the night,” Potter yawned, rubbing his eyes but not flopping back onto the bed. He was still on his side with his cheek on one fist, and his hair was sticking up like a bird’s-nest. “And I’m not even sure I’d get these questions in the daylight.”

“Come on, Potter – you can’t just be okay with this-!”

“You’re right, I’m not,” the Gryffindor snapped unexpectedly, and Draco finally really looked at him. They were both laying on their sides now, mirror images of small, slight boys in shadow. Harry still looked more tired than angry, though, if Draco were judging. “I’m not okay that you got beat up by two bloody gits. How’s that? Can I go to sleep now? I don’t mind being stuck with your for a bit, so long as, you know, we still get to go to classes and do normal things and such.”

This revelation was so unexpected that Draco just relaxed onto the bed, rolling gingerly over until he was facing the other way, alone with his thoughts. “Yes, you can go to sleep now,” he said absently, while his mind turned over the possibility that, of all people, The Boy Who Lived didn’t seem bothered by this at all. 

The sense of calm that Harry’s personality was radiating was…soothing…and Draco found himself finally going to sleep.

 

~^~

 

Lucius nearly ran into Severus as he came out of his temporary quarters, proving that rushing was a bad idea. “Severus?” he asked, straightening and stopping in time to appear at least slightly formal. 

More relaxed than he was around students but still imposing, the Potions Master merely smiled faintly back, knowing wryness in his dark eyes. “Going somewhere in a hurry, Lucius? To give a late ‘good morning’ to your son, perhaps?”

The aristocrat’s face gave nothing away. “I already saw Draco this morning. He assured me that he was well, and he and Mr. Potter have been excused from all classes, today, I hear.”

The fact that Lucius didn’t even trip over the name ‘Potter’ alerted Severus more than anything to the fact that there was something hiding behind the pleasant, scripted answer. But he could play this game, too, and _had_ many times with Lucius. So he just nodded, waiting for more, still leaning slightly against the door to make himself a bit of a hindrance. Lucius could be a dangerous man to play with, but only if you didn’t know how. 

The faint flicker of something in those silver eyes let Severus knew that the elder Malfoy was aware of his patient scrutiny. Nonetheless, he went on, “I have business that needs attending to.”

“I see,” Snape said slowly, smiling just a touch wider even as his face made a mockery of innocence. “I’d like to accompany you then.”

“Whyever would you want to do that?” Lucius, too, was smiling congenially and affecting a guileless expression. Anyone watching would either have thought that they were merely two acquaintances chatting about what a pleasant day it was going to be – or else they’d be shocked to see Snape smiling. Some fifth-years still didn’t believe that Snape _could_ smile.

This was a game that Severus played very rarely, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t good at it. He’d already known that Lucius had seen his son this morning – Snape had gone in shortly thereafter, delivering some potions and unguents he’d brewed that were delicate but would help with the healing of Draco’s new scars. Draco himself was relaxed and utterly unafraid of his godfather, but it had been useful that the Potter boy still gulped and swallowed when the professor was around. In that manner, Severus had deftly extracted a bit of information, learning that Lucius’s arrival had been brief, saying he had business. By the fact that Draco was not upset by this seeming lack of attention, perhaps Lucius had whispered a better reason to his boy, a reason that had Draco’s eyes fierce and hard and his lips firmly shut. Interesting. 

So, deducing as he went, Severus had gone to find Lucius. On a fit of whimsy, he’d stopped and asked a painting about the pale-haired man’s whereabouts, and after the painting got over being surprised at the attention, the answer was swiftly given. For the rest of his walk, the Potions Master had begun to truly consider the power the paintings had – paintings that seemed quite attached to one Draco Malfoy. The painting Snape had just talked to had timidly asked about the boy’s welfare, in fact, and Snape had given in to say that Draco was healing well. 

Now, he answered Lucius’s question in a lower voice, his tone slipping out of the oblivious tones to show that he was more than aware that something was going on: “Business with a Malfoy is rarely dull.”

Lucius’s eyes narrowed, and then his smile shifted – going from false and easy to something subtly scarier. His eyes had also gone from calm grey to a lethal shade of silver that enemies of House Malfoy had come to fear. “I would enjoy your company, old friend, but I don’t know if you’ll enjoy this business.” He paused, considering whether to say more, and finally added in a grimmer tone, “I’m a very protective father.”

The truth of the matter clicked into place then in Snape’s mind, and he simply nodded. “He is my godson, if you recall,” he said by way of acceptance. Something bloody was about to happen, and Snape, for the life of him, couldn’t see any good reason to stop it. 

 

~^~

 

Harry was sitting on the edge of his bed, fidgeting constantly by way of jumping his knee up and down and/or drumming his fingers on his knee. He seemed totally unaware of the actions, but Draco – sitting totally still by comparison – couldn’t ignore them. “Can’t you sit _still,_ Potter?” he finally spat, knowing that if he were a cat his ears would have been laid back crossly on his head.

The bespectacled boy’s head snapped over to look at him, brows lowering into a frown as the up-and-down twitching of his leg ceased. After a moment, Harry looked down, seeming to notice belatedly what he’d been doing, before he looked up and retorted, “That’s easy for you to say. You’re not about to be a Gryffindor waltzing into a nest of Slytherins.”

Well, that was true, but that didn’t mean Draco was going to let Potter off the hook for twitching like a slug in salt. The pale-haired boy looked away, schooling his face to be disinterested again, although he gave in to tug at his shirt-collar just once. Potter was back in his school robes after their talk with McGonagall, but because of his new scars… Just thinking of them made Draco shudder, and it took an effort of will not to shrink back under his covers and hide. Because of his scars and the fact that they were only just beginning to heal, he was wearing a light button-down shirt, dark-green because white would have too easily shown the vicious markings beneath. Even the thin, silken material was faintly uncomfortable, although at least Madame Pomfrey had given Draco something that had left the injuries pleasantly numb. 

Draco tried to think of a decent retort, but hadn’t thought of something before the doors to infirmary opened to reveal presumably whomever had come to fetch them for Harry’s trip to the Slytherin common-room. Draco noticed that Harry stiffened almost before the newcomer turned out to be Dumbledore, the dark-haired boy’s body exhibiting a fine line of carefully controlled tension that, ironically, meant he held suddenly still instead of fidgeting. Draco gave him a narrow-eyed look, but then had to turn back to the Headmaster. 

“Good morning, boys,” said the old man with his usual, easy cheer, coming up to stand in front of them as both scooted off the beds and too their feet. The old man’s eyes had a glazed, rheumy look as they always did, but the way they scanned over each boy in turn – perhaps lingering on the slightly tense, shuttered look on Harry’s face, so unexpected – showed that there was a sharp mind beneath. Still, his voice remained light: “Or should I say evening? You gave us all quite a fright last night, Draco, and you as well, Harry. But I trust a bit of time under Madame Pomfrey’s care has set you back to rights enough for a brief walk?”

The man’s tone was calm and not really condescending, but Draco still felt his back stiffening at the insinuation of weakness. Over the course of his time in Slytherin, with Crabbe and Goyle breathing down his neck, he’d learned one thing: not to show weakness. “I’m perfectly able to do more than walk, Headmaster,” he dared to declare, refusing to admit that his hands were curling into fists stubbornly even as his voice grew crisp like his father’s did in tense situations, “I’m ready to go back to classes.”

The whole school had presumably missed morning classes due to the late-night disruption, but Harry and Draco had both received both breakfast and lunch in the infirmary, and presumably had been given leeway to miss more academics – Draco didn’t want anyone to think that he was soft, however, as much as he also cringed inwardly at the idea of spending time with his classmates now that the secret of his peer-abuse was finally out in the open. 

The Headmaster looked like he was very close to smirking instead of smiling, a definite difference when you were Dumbledore, with a carefree smile and a knowing, wry smirk. “And you, Harry?” he turned away to ask the other boy. 

Harry jumped a bit and being addressed, and Draco wondered if the boy _always_ thought that he disappeared in a room – he always seemed to see the boy startling a bit when people actually noticed and directed questions at him. “Um…er…yeah, sure,” the Gryffindor agreed, rubbing at the back of his neck thoughtfully (fidgeting again). “But aren’t I supposed to meet the snake- …er, Slytherins, first?”

That was what McGonagall had come and talked to them about just before lunch. She’d said that Severus had been meant to deliver the news, too, but he was off somewhere probably talking to Lucius. The woman had seemed annoyed by the lack of back-up, but nonetheless managed to talk to Harry and Draco both as if both were in her house instead of just one. She’d informed them that the other professors had talked things over, figuring out arrangements to accommodate Harry and Draco’s new situation – the situation in which Draco needed the messy-haired Gryffindor nearby unless everyone wanted another magical blow-up. The conclusion had been that Harry would move into the Slytherin dorms. With Crabbe and Goyle now firmly expelled, there were openings, so after some rearrangements, Harry would be sharing a room with Draco and Blaise Zabini, another Slytherin who appeared not to have been involved in the bullying. Harry had been understandably nervous about all of this, but to balance it out, Draco was going to be going to classes now with Harry’s Gryffindor classmates. There were also plans to switch this up, although mostly, it sounded like even the professors were playing it by ear, since this wasn’t exactly a common occurrence. 

“Naturally, my dear boy,” smiled Dumbledore in response to Harry’s question, ignoring the slip into First Year vernacular that labeled all Slytherins (often correctly) as snakes. “I’m afraid everyone is off in class as of the moment, but how about the three of us head up to the dormitory?” It was a question, but it was a question coming from the Headmaster, and he was already turning his body to leave, hands clasped unassumingly behind him. The two boys had little choice but to follow. 

 

~^~

 

As they walked, Dumbledore chattered on about various inane things, although it turned out to be a surprisingly stifled and awkward stretch of conversation. Harry and Draco were both polite enough, but Draco had an innate dislike for useless drabble, and if Dumbledore had ever turned around, he’d have caught the young Malfoy narrowing his eyes at him in derision. Verbally, Draco just became rather brief, bordering on acerbic, although he was smart enough to bite his tongue. He expected Harry to be more chummy with the old wizard, since Dumbledore had a fondness for Gryffindors that was known, and Draco had often noticed the old man watching Potter with fondness. However, besides being polite, Harry did not appeared interested in conversation, and his eyes remained fixed on Dumbledore with a look of clear distrust. Draco was surprised, and decided that he’d have to pry about that later – tactfully, of course. He was a Malfoy, after all.

And there were the paintings, of course. Besides being a wonderful distraction from Dumbledore’s talk of candy and classes and Quidditch (there might have been more, but Draco had tuned them out), they were a relief to see, and the normally stern-faced Draco found himself reflexively smiling at familiar painted faces. This was the first time he’d been out of the infirmary, and it looked as though all of Hogwarts’s painted occupants were eager for proof that their little serpent was indeed well. Forgetting his company for the moment, or the fact that his life was still upside-down for all intents and purposes, the small Slytherin found a smile playing across his face. His father had grown reserved and frugal with his smiles as he aged, but Draco was still young enough that they came easily to his face, at least for the paintings, who’d never done anything but love him. 

Dumbledore noted this, but said nothing, except to occasionally wave and greet the paintings as well. His words and smiles were familiar, but the paintings still didn’t look on him with the same warmth that they accorded Draco.

And just as Draco had noticed Harry’s behavior, Harry noticed Draco’s, one eyebrow twitching upwards into his hair as he watched a boy look at sentient paintings more kindly than he looked upon people. Also like Draco, he decided to ask later, although the idea of tact really never crossed his mind.

 

~^~

 

Entering the Slytherin common-room wasn’t exactly the torture that Harry was expecting. He’d been bracing himself all morning for this, telling himself to man up and face this new challenge like a Gryffidor, but he found that the Slytherin common-room, while empty of Slytherins, was pretty much exactly like Gryffindor’s except with different colors. He was inspecting it for a moment and didn’t notice Dumbledore watching him until the old man asked, “Is it to your liking, Harry?” with a slight smile.

Harry jerked his head back to focus on the question. Quite honestly, the Dursleys had ignored him whenever possible, and when they did talk to him he wasn’t usually addressed so much as ordered to do something. Having people say his name with a question mark was something of a novelty. “Well, it’s much different when it isn’t being torn apart by magic,” he blurted in knee-jerk honesty. Then he flushed red up to his ears as he looked at Draco, the source of said magical destruction. The blonde boy was glaring at him with a thin-lipped scowl, and Harry blew out a breath through his nose and slotted that firmly into the ‘fail’ section. _‘This is going wonderfully,’_ he thought with enough sarcasm to choke a horse, hoping that the day thus far wasn’t an example of what his entire stay with Draco was going to be like. Still, at least Draco seemed to have an in with the Lady in Black – that painting had even glared at Dumbledore, but she’d softened almost visibly at the sight of Draco. With any luck, some of that ambivalence would extend to Harry, because the dark painting scared the wits out of him. 

Immune to Harry’s embarrassment and Draco’s annoyance (which was born out of embarrassment as well, truth be told), the Headmaster just chuckled and began walking to the flight of stairs that branched into the boys’ wing of the dorms, and from there to Draco’s room. “I’m sure you’ll find it quite comfortable. Because beneath the House colors, we’re all just wizards, are we not?” the man asked in an oblique tone, and neither boy knew how to answer, so they just followed. 

The only surprise to be found in the Slytherin dorm-room was that Harry’s thins had already been delivered there, and Harry couldn’t help but be impressed by the speed with which things happened in a school dominated by magic. He touched his bedsheets, Gryffindor red-and-gold despite the green-and-silver furnishings that coated the rest of the room. He realized that Draco was standing primly and rather tensely next to the neighboring bed (Zabini’s must have been the odd on out across the room), and Harry realized that he himself hadn’t say anything by way of approval or disapproval. Once again he found himself grappling for words. “It’s nice,” he finally managed, a brief, short phrase to fill the silence while he found something else to say and a more-or-less sincere smile to go with it. “I mean, I feel like I’m still going to stick out like a sore thumb, but I’ll manage, yeah?” He breathed a silent sigh of relief as he got just the right amount of levity into his tone, expressing his willingness to go along with this plan – truly, he didn’t have any real argument with it, although he imagined that Ron and Hermione were already having kittens by now, since the gossip system would have spread the news of his temporary reassignment to Slytherin. If they’d known about his little argument with the Sorting Hat, perhaps they’d have been less surprised… 

 

~^~

 

Draco was surprised how well Potter was taking all of this. He himself would have been throwing a royal rant over being stuffed into Gryffindor House – just the idea of that much red and gold all around him caused a shudder. It was already proving very, very hard to keep a calm expression on his face at the prospect of now joining a classroom full of Gryffindors. 

It was a class with Hufflepuffs and Gyffindors – if it had at least contained Slytherins, Draco could have sat some among his house-mates, at least, although he didn’t see that as a very promising prospect either. Most had been ambivalent towards him at best, Crabbe and Goyle’s threats keeping anyone from liking him. Now that his ‘magical situation’ was doubtless known, it was just about the most embarrassing situation he could think of. No, somehow, sitting amongst Gryffindors have become his _best_ prospect instead of his worst. 

Still, he was on the verge of panicking as he and Potter reached the classroom, Dumbledore opening it and wishing them a good rest of their day. With the same control he’d used regularly against Crabbe and Goyle’s taunting, Draco had managed to keep a straight face, and took a measured breath to ensure that he wouldn’t show any of his fear to the students he was about to mingle with.

“Are you all right?”

Draco snapped his head around, surprised to find that Potter had spoken and was looking at him with hesitant but rather sincere worry. Dumbledore had walked off, and with his exit, the dark-haired boy had seemed to calm down and relax a bit. Still, the fact that he’d noticed Draco’s unease when no one else had ever been able to was somewhat unsettling.

“Of course I’m fine, Potter,” Draco snapped out of reflex, looking forward hastily and straightening his spine. “Just because you were afraid to go into the Slytherin common-room doesn’t mean I’m afraid of a classroom full of _your_ house-mates.” Which was an utter lie, but Slytherins were good at lying, and Malfoys were even better.

Somewhere between resigned and irritated, Potter just blinked at him for a minute, then sighed loudly and ran a hand back through his hair. 

“What was that sigh for-?” Draco started to demand, hackles rising.

“Let’s just get into class, okay?”

 

~^~

 

Ron and Hermione were turning and staring at Harry throughout Flitwicks entire class, but then again, so was everyone else. Flitwick had actually explained the entire situation to the entire class, and Harry had done his best to slouch and wish for the chair to swallow him. He’d surreptitiously watched Draco, knowing that this had to be even harder on the other boy, but Draco had remained sitting primly as he was, seemingly deaf except for the fact that his sharp jaw was obviously clenched, and a ramrod couldn’t get a back that straight. Whatever Pomfrey had given him for his scars must have been working overtime, because that posture should have hurt like blazes. Quite stubbornly, the slim Malfoy boy had refused to acknowledge anyone during the whole class, which included Harry, who was sitting right next to him. Harry tried to hate Professor Flitwick for putting everything in the open like that, but the minute professor truly seemed to mean well, and if nothing else, this would end any need for explanations later – everyone knew that The Boy Who Lived and the Hear of the House of Malfoy were joined at the hip now. 

Ron and Hermione were a row ahead, and kept turning around. They likely would have interrogated Harry right then and there, but they’d notice Draco and, with embarrassed flushes, turn forward again as if hoping he wouldn’t notice their repeated squirming. It wasn’t as if Draco and Harry were friends, but suddenly Harry was just about ready to die of embarrassment because his _other_ friends were making such a fool of him. “Ron!” he finally hissed, when the red-haired boy twisted around for at least the twentieth time, and Harry was red-faced in turn with annoyance. Flitwick turned around, blinking at the unexpected sound, and Harry flushed, once again sinking in his chair. 

The class went…well enough. To say that it was brilliant would be a lie, but it was fair to say it could have been worse. The Gryffindor class was still reeling from the news that one of their classmates was now necessary to keep a Slytherin from exploding (that was basically what the story boiled down to, especially for the simplest minds on the room), and therefore behaved as much as they ever did. Ron looked understandably distrustful, and the few times that he and Draco _did_ make eye-contact, both glared so hard that Harry worried he’d have to separate them. Hermione either looked at Harry with pity or else was looking at Draco as if she had a million questions, probably about the Magicseal. Harry was glad, at least, that Flitwick hadn’t mentioned that Draco now had physical scars in testament to the curse. 

As for the Hufflepuffs, they were gentle by nature – therefore, the most ruckus they caused over the single Slytherin n their midst was the stare like a bunch of owls from time to time. Draco ignored them like they were mice, and he a hawk who had already eaten and couldn’t be bothered to unnecessarily hunt witless prey for sport. It was a rather snobbish look in Harry’s books, but he figured he wasn’t supposed to judge. He figured Draco had had a pretty tough day already anyway, and this was probably the best day he’d had. 

 

~^~

 

“So,” Draco sighed, sighing a little bit more dramatically than Harry considered entirely necessary, but it was only fair because Harry had done the same earlier, “What next?” Since Draco was no officially on the Gryffindor’s schedule, he was forced to follow. He flicked pale strands of hair out of his eyes, but just as Harry was going to answer, he noted the Slytherin’s eyes snap past him, fixing on something behind him and growing more aloof than they were already. Harry turned around to find Hermione (Ron in tow) scurrying up to them through the press of students heading to their next class. 

“Harry!” She looked, after a moment, at Draco, blushing rather obviously to hide that she’d nearly ignored him. The blonde boy just turned his head, as if to say, _‘I can ignore you, too. Only I’m better at it.’_ Ironically, it was Ron who stiffened at the implied snub. Hermione was already fixed on Harry again. “When you disappeared from the common-room last night, we all thought the worst! It wasn’t until this morning that anyone knew _anything_!” It was clear that Hermione was on the verge of exploding, either with frustration, the need to hug him, or with pure academic interest that could not be healthy. Harry squirmed under the attention. “That was _witless_ , what you did!” Hermione finally decided to be wrathful, and maybe she would have punched him in he arm if her own arms weren’t loaded down with books (too many books to even pick one in particularly to hit him with).

“Um…well, ’Mione,” Harry tried to extricate himself from the tirade, running his fingers through his hair to try and shake loose something good to say, succeeding only in making a worse mess of his hair, “I didn’t really think about it-”

“EXACTLY!” she almost squealed, as if vindicated. Harry was amused to note that Draco winced. “Draco could have killed you – no offense, Draco,” she quieted enough to add.

Looking nonplussed, Draco blinked silver eyes at her as he turned back to face the conversation. “I’m not sure that was even offensive or not,” she said smoothly, and Harry spared a moment to shoot him a glare. Draco, predictably, glared back even more hotly, until Harry just gave up and rolled his eyes He had enough drama with Hermione and Ron as friends, and honestly didn’t like fighting much under any conditions. 

“I promise I won’t do it again, all right, ’Mione?” he placated sincerely. 

“Hey, guys,” Ron interjected, looking after the trailing robes of their fellow House-mates, “We’re gonna be late. Can we just go…?”

“Yes!” Harry immediately blurted. The offer was a lifeline, and if he sounded too eager, then at least no one mentioned it. 

 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not a super-big fan of Hermione and Ron, so if I smash them a bit...forgive me. I think that they'll be annoying at best, so don't worry :P 
> 
> Yay for Draco and Harry beginning to get a bit of bonding time!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus follows Lucius on a little vengeance trip. Draco and Harry have lunch. A bit more is learned about Ron's manners, and Harry's habits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully I haven't left anyone hanging for too long... As I've said, I plan to update this at least every other week. And if anyone has any ideas for things they'd like to see in this fic, feel free to comment then! I really have no solid plans XP

~^~

 

Severus and Lucius stepped away from the Apparation site at Gringotts and ignored the hubbub of the busy bank. No words were needed between the two as they walked – too many times in the past had they gone on a similar journey (though, this was the admittedly first time that all could see their faces, and bystanders did not flee in fear of wizards donning the regalia of a Death Eater) for words to be necessary now. 

Although Severus had never asked, he knew that they were going after the fathers of the two boys who had tormented Lucius’s son. Crabbe and Goyle Sr. had not been wise, and instead of hiding or fleeing in terror of the wrath of Malfoy, they were dining in their favorite club, which Lucius found without trouble. Snape followed along calmly but carefully, fully aware that the calm look on the aristocrat’s pale face was just a shield over a vengeful interior. A public location would not stop Lucius; witnesses could be bought or threatened into forgetting what they had seen. 

Upon entering the dimly lit building, a club servant met them.

“Lord Malfoy, Professor Snape, how may I serve you?” the man asked politely, “Would you like a seat? I’ve got a table-”

“I’m actually here to see some friends,” Lucius said smoothly, voice like velvet that Snape knew was hiding steel. “Mr. Crabbe and Mr. Goyle?”

Oblivious to the fact that he was leading the fox right to the chickens, the man nodded, saying that the two were indeed here, and began to lead the way to a back room. Severus watched the way Lucius’s eyes immediately locked on the two other men in the room, their silver depths frighteningly intense. Stepping out Lucius’s shadow, Severus thanked and dismissed their oblivious host, also casting an eye around the room to be sure it was empty. Thick smoke clogged the room, dimming the lights and spreading the shadows.

“Snape! You must be here to tell us the details about our sons, eh?” chortled Goyle around the cigar in his mouth. He hadn’t noticed Severus’s wand come out briefly, hidden by the folds of his robe as he’s ostensibly shut the door for privacy as the servant left. His spells had been quiet but succinct from much practice.

Clearly, neither man knew precisely what trouble their boy’s had brought down upon their heads. “Tell me they used something from that book we gave them on that nasty little Mudblood!” cried Crabbe from his seat, joining in the conversation. Well, that answered the question of precisely how the two boys had learned an illegal spell…

Both men were clearly finishing a multiple-course lunch from the mounds of dishes piled across the table. Only swine could cause a club as classy as this to resemble something as cheap as a Muggle strip-club without even having to add the scantily-clad women. 

Severus ignored both men, instead leaning nonchalantly against the door while Lucius joined the men at the table. He was known for being antisocial, so his behavior would not be remarked upon. What the dunderheads (no smarter than his students really, if they hadn’t even bothered to check what student their sons were bullying) would not recollect until it was too late was that on raids he often guarded Lucius’s back and secured their prey from fleeing before the Malfoy was satisfied in the amount of bloodshed. After all, Severus’s position was ideal for stopping anyone from exiting the room through the door or fireplace and hindering help from outside from interrupting Lucius’s fun, should the privacy wards be breached by overly zealous screams. 

“Mudblood? No, you are mistaken, gentlemen – your sons harmed no Mudblood,” drawled Lucius from his reclined position. Severus had noted long ago that Lucius often looked the most relaxed when he was at his most dangerous…and those time in the past hadn’t even involved his son.

Crabbe and Goyle Sr. both leaned forward eager for any information about their sons’ misdeeds. No doubt they were greatly looking forward to crowing about the achievements to Lord Malfoy, whose owns son had not accomplished anything nearly as Dark as being sent to Azkaban at such a young age. The irony almost made Severus want to laugh. 

“No, young Vincent and Gregory chose their prey most unwisely,” Lucius replied, still keeping a calm façade on while he watched the index finger of one hand trace a serpentine shape on the tabletop. “You see, they selected a pureblood. Not just any pureblood…” Now he paused, and from where he stood at Lucius’s back, Severus could see the tension that infused his shoulders before the edge of fury infused is words. “…But a Malfoy.” Finally Lucius met their eyes across the table, and only then did they realize the predator in the room with them. No longer was Malfoy simply an aristocrat, but instead he was unveiling what had advanced him through the ranks until he stood as the Dark Lord’s right hand. Panic-stricken, Crabbe jumped from his chair knocking it over in his haste to get to the door, only to skid to a halt with Severus’s wand to his neck. He’d almost forgotten the man existed, and had most certainly forgotten how fast the man was.

“Leaving so soon?” mocked Severus. Casting a quick spell that froze the man in place. 

Crabbe wouldn’t have dared move if he could, even as the screams began behind immediately mounting him. Minutes, hours, _days_ – his horrified mind could no longer tell how long he stood there sweating and trembling while his slower comrade took Lucius’s rage first. It didn’t take a genius to know that his own turn was approaching. The noises of the room had changed while he waited: screams transformed into pleading, which morphed into whimpers and moans as Goyle’s throat became too torn to form actual words, until finally silence reined. Crabbe would give anything – all of his vaults, his townhouse, hell even his _wife_ – for the awful silence to finally be broken. 

He would forever regret that wish. 

Footsteps, he could hear footsteps! Crabbe almost jumped out of his skin when a hand descended on his shoulder, and even Severus’s spell couldn’t stop him from flinching. 

“No one touches what is mine,” crooned Lucius, the breath tickling Crabbe’s ear reminiscent of a lover’s caress. And with a brief word, he broke Severus’s freezing spell, turning Crabbe to face him…and to face the sight of Goyle Sr., a seizuring lump on the floor.

“Please, I didn’t know!” Crabbe began to babble madly, “If they told me it was your son, I would have stopped them! Please!” The words were empty now, though: nothing could take back the damage that had been done to Draco, nor undue the fact that Crabbe and Goyle had raised their sons to be thoughtless monsters. The Dark Lord had use for monsters, but he was gone, and Lucius had no use for men who gave away the means to harm his son.

Lucius had no mercy, and he was terribly efficient. In under an hour, he and Severus were back in Hogwarts again, no evidence of the violence to be found. Those at St. Mungo’s would be baffled when they received their two new patients in the morning. Two permanent residents for the Janus Thickey Ward who would not make a sound, only rock, clawing at their heads to try and stop the nightmares that occurred within. Never again would Crabbe and Goyle feel peace. Such was the price to pay for the attack on the Malfoy heir. 

 

~^~

 

Going through classes with Harry and the other Gryffindors was never boring, Draco had to admit that. His back and chest had started to ache as whatever was numbing the scars faded, but Draco was still able to think back with some amusement on how many ways a Gryffindor could bungle a simple set of instructions. Watching Ron nearly get eaten by a Raffelesia Hybrid and Neville dive to save him – no less than three times – and then the resulting chaos as Neville knocked over a flowering Honey Bristle had actually be entertaining, especially since Draco was in no way associated with them. Professor Sprout had actually taken it all with jaded aplomb, indicating that this was par for the course with the Gryffindor class. Hermione and Harry both had the grace to look embarrassed, although Harry started laughing more than once. When Hermione hissed at him and swatted his head, Draco had observed with catty amusement of his own, not letting his smirk fade when Harry (rubbing indignantly at his head) glared at him. 

Lunch was drawing near, however, and Draco was beginning to feel nervous. 

He’d be eating at the Gryffindor table, and while the Gryffindors had been more or less ignoring Draco up until now besides the rather frequent questioning looks, Draco wasn’t entirely certain whether that level of aloofness would be maintained at the lunch-table. He’d watched the Gryffindor table from a distance before, and knew them to be boisterous, and if anyone was taking bets on where food would be thrown and/or levitated onto another student, everyone bet on the lion’s table first. Draco couldn’t help but worry how they’d take to having a snake in their midst.

“Come on, Draco,” Harry said, supporting a rather wobbly Ron on one side. Being nearly eaten by a plant three times had taken a lot out of the redheaded boy, but not enough for him to endure lunch in the infirmary. Ron’s dedication to his food was foolhardy, in Draco’s opinion, although he was intrigued to see just how much Ron perked up at the first whiff of lunch. It was like watching a phoenix come back to life or something. 

Harry was still talking to him: “Hermione went ahead and found us seats, and if we hurry, there might still be-”

Ron hadn’t spoken above a whisper since being pulled out of the massive, fowl-smelling plan for the third time, but now got the gist of Harry’s words in time to finish with an eleated shout, “BROWNIES!” Quickly, he pushed away from Harry’s supporting shoulder and began racing into the Great Hall.

“Is he entirely…all right?” Draco asked as they both watched him go, Draco’s delicate tone making it abundantly clear that he suspected Ron was mental. 

Instead of arguing, the Potter boy grimaced at the validity of the question. “Really, he’s all right. Hermione just says that food is his love-language or something, whatever that means. He’s gone from unconscious to running in three seconds flat on the mornings someone convinced the House elves to sneak fresh cinnamon roles into the common-room.” By now, Harry was wending his way through the crush of students towards where Hermione and Ron both were waving at them, pointing to two seats saved between them. Draco stiffened, immediately appalled by the thought of having to sit next to either of them, but then deflated when he realized that it was probably his best option. They were Potter’s friends, so they’d have more reasons to tolerate him. Back stiff, Draco walked forward as proudly as he could, aware that Harry was staring at him strangely for it. 

Both boys found their seats without difficulty, however, with Harry plopping down next to Ron and Draco taking up residence next to the talkative witch. She was once again bouncing with excitement, biting her lip and glancing between Draco and Harry as if wanting to ask permission of at least one of them to explode with questions. Suddenly Draco wondered if it might have been less painful to sit next to someone who hated him. 

Quite a few of the Gryffindors were leaning over and peering own the table at the Slytherin in their midst, openly intrigued, and it took an effort for Draco to keep his face aloof and blank. He kept his eyes forward, as if he had something better to look at in the middle distance. 

Perhaps it shouldn’t have been much of a surprise when one of the Gryffindors finally called out to Harry, “Hey, Potter! How’s your day been?”  
The question was fairly neutral, and – as always – Harry jumped at being addressed. “Um…Fine?” he called back. 

Another shout came from somewhere else down the table: “If you’re having trouble, just say the word!”

After a few more such calls, it became clear that the intentions of the Gryffindors was to show sympathy for Harry while also expressing subtle warnings should Draco do anything ‘Slytherin’ to him – probably along the lines of hexing him or putting snakes in his drawers or something. Draco’s Malfoy heritage had apparently preceded him, because Harry’s house-mates seemed more worried about the Potter boy’s wellbeing than anything else. Very few actually made comments directly pertaining to Draco, and no one addressed him, which was more of a relief than he cared to admit. His scars were aching now, and he wasn’t entirely sure how well he’d take it if people had started taunting him, here in enemy territory.

Strangely enough, it seemed like Harry was the one uncomfortable. After the first dozen people had expressed their concerns about how he was doing with a Slytherin tag-along, he’d become fully aware of just how many people were staring, and instead of getting an ego-boost at the attention, The Boy Who Lived had grown progressively tenser. “Potter,” Draco hissed, as Dumbledore stood to formally start the lunchtime feast, momentarily redirecting everyone’s attention off Harry and Draco. The bespectacled boy turned to look at Draco with lowered brows. “You’re as tense as a cat over water,” Draco informed him bluntly in a tone that asked what in the world was wrong with him. 

Harry’s eyes narrowed further at being called out. “How can you tell? No one else is saying that,” he snapped back under his breath, lucky that the food magically appeared and distracted their tablemates from their conversation. 

The question, honestly, stumped Draco – because it truly seemed that everyone else, even Hermione and Ron, were oblivious to how increasingly uncomfortable the Gryffindor golden-boy was getting. “I don’t know,” he scrambled for an answer, pale cheeks flushing a delicate pink as he was caught out, “But you are, aren’t you?”

Harry looked away, snagging the salad nearest him. “Maybe,” he admitted. 

They at in silence after that, because it had been the extent of Draco’s friendliness for him to ask. He wasn’t going to pry further when he and the other small boy barely knew each other. Soon Hermione began chattering, avoiding the topic if Draco’s condition so obviously that it may as well have been spoken aloud; as soon as Ron had slowed down in his conquering of the food that he could talk, he joined the conversation as well, often with his mouth full. The redhead was probably quite happy to have both Harry and Draco between himself and Hermione, because it meant that the brunette witch could only glare and talk at him instead of swatting him for lack of manners like she wanted to. Draco was beginning to see that Hermione was a rather physical witch, despite her reputation as an insufferable know-it-all and incurable bookworm. 

His scars began to act up almost before he’d eaten anything, however, and while Hermione droned on about classes and Ron interjected – seemingly without purpose – about Quidditch, the blonde-haired Slytherin found himself lowering his silverware and just focusing on breathing. 

Immediately, he felt Potter’s eyes on him. “Hey, Draco, are you all right?”

And of course, that meant that Harry’s two friends immediately swiveled to look at him, too. Unhelpful as ever, Ron made his opinion known almost immediately, “He seems fine to me, Har.” Half-chewed food nearly slipped out of his mouth. 

But Harry’s mouth had thinned to a terse line, and then he was getting up from the table, gripping Draco’s arm to pull him up with him. “Hey!” Draco protested. 

“Hermione, can you tell McGonagall that we’re going to see Madame Pomfrey,” Harry said, ignoring his blonde companion. Despite being nearly as small for his age as Draco was, the Potter boy had enough strength to keep Draco from shaking him off, unless Draco wanted to make a scene, which he didn’t. Besides, beneath his façade of high annoyance, Draco was sighing in relief at the thought of seeing the Medi-witch. 

“Sure, Harry,” Hermione agreed, although she, too, didn’t seem to see anything wrong with Draco. The young Slytherin wondered why Harry could see through his carefully constructed mask while the others couldn’t. 

“Good,” Harry said, then waved briefly to his two friends before turning and steering himself and Draco out of the Great Hall, just managing to avoid the Gryffindor Prefect who clearly wanted to know what the escape was all about. Hermione was already heading to talk to McGonagall. 

As soon as the two boys were out in the emptiness of the halls, Harry sighed in evident relief and let his head drop back on his neck. He wasn’t holding Draco’s arm anymore to urge him on, but instead stood with arms at his side and his shoulders visibly dropping, as if he hadn’t been able to relax until now. 

“Going to have an episode or something, Potter?” Draco asked scathingly, although he was unable to hide the question in his eyes. 

Harry, apparently more or less immune to the snark at the moment, sighed and lifted his head again, running a hand back through his unkempt hair. “Just…! Ah!” he didn’t seem able to describe it for a minute, and while Draco rolled his eyes dramatically at the verbal failure, Harry tried again with a vague gesture of his hands, “All those people! It grates on your after awhile, you know.”

“No, I don’t know,” Draco clarified immediately, watching Harry now with something like curious amusement as they walked. “So the Golden Boy doesn’t like all of the attention of the commoners?” he couldn’t help but taunt, although some of the bite had left his voice. 

Harry shot him a look, but then grimaced and rubbed at the back of his neck in what was probably a typical gesture of embarrassment for him. He blew out a sigh. “Look, I can sense magic, okay?”

That was not what he’d been expecting. Not that he could say _what_ he’d been expecting, but learning that Harry was magic-sensitive was not it. “What?”

“You wanted to know how I could tell you were going barmy in there?” Harry shot back, “I could sense it in your magic. You want to know why I really, really, _really_ am glad for the excuse to walk you down to the infirmary? Because sensing that much magic in that close of quarters starts to make me feel like my head will explode.”

Draco almost couldn’t believe this, and it distracted him from the itching burn on his chest and back that was forcing him to walk stiffly. “If you’re a bloody Magic Sensitive, then why does McGonagall have you eating in there?” he demanded, wondering if all Gryffindors were gluttons for punishment. 

Unexpectedly, Harry’s expression grew shuttered, and maybe slightly uncomfortable. “She doesn’t know. No one knows except for you right now.”

“That’s rich,” Draco scoffed, growing more overwhelmed by this by the minute, “Are you telling me you’ve got a rare magical skill, and you haven’t even bragged once about it?” He was trying not to laugh. “Not even the bookworm and the stomach on legs?” 

Harry was about the same height as Draco, and just about and lean, but he carried it in a way that promised more muscle later on, and somehow, he managed to tap into that future strength as he glared forebodingly at Draco now. Draco withdrew a bit, feeling the urge to swallow his words. “No, I haven’t,” Harry said evenly, obviously not in a tolerant mood anymore, “I’m sure the Headmaster would love to know, but I don’t see why I should tell him, and if this is something I have that no one else has…then maybe it’s best I keep it to myself.” He looked resolutely forward again, clearly uncomfortable with having said so much. “Blimey, why am I telling you this?”

“Because you’re a Gryffindor. Strategy is not your strong point,” said Draco blithely, in a bid to return the conversation to safer ground…even if that meant more antagonism. He shrugged, and now it was his turn to keep his eyes forward as Harry stared at him. “And neither is keeping secrets. Honestly, you Gryffindors are all alike. No planning and no subterfuge in the lot of you.”

Harry was obviously just looking at him in bafflement as they walked, and Draco tried not to smile triumphantly when the boy said, “You’re a prat, Malfoy, you know that, right?”

“And you’re a bleedin’ git who can keep secrets from his own Head of House but not from a Slytherin,” replied Draco gamely. 

Giving an exasperated snort, Harry reached first for the infirmary doors to pull them open. “I can’t believe I’m stuck with you!”

“Noooo,” Draco widened his eyes melodramatically, batting his lashes in faked shock at Harry, “I thought you woke up one morning and thought, ‘Today’s the day I get to keep tabs on a magically unstable snake!’ and then cheered all the way to the breakfast table.”

Harry growled something unrepeatable at him, and by then Madame Pomfrey was walking over to them in her hurried, concerned way. “Oh, Draco, love – you should have come in ages ago! I was expecting you to turn up just after your last class, when the pain started to come back.”

Apparently, Harry’s sense of magic didn’t necessary tell him the _reason_ for the magical ambiguities he noticed, because he froze at Madame Pomfrey’s words, suddenly looking contrite and even a bit taken aback. Draco, as if the words had made hiding the truth impossible, grimaced and tried not to shake as he looked down, clenching his jaw. “Harry, help the boy take his shirt off – I’m going to rub something on those scars to numb them a bit, and then see what else I’ve got for the pain,” Poppy instructed before hurrying off. 

The embarrassment of having Potter help him strip his shirt off was lessoned by the fact that Draco ached too badly to care anyway, and any movement made the skin of his torso spit out what felt like sparks of pain. With lots of help from Harry and lots of wincing and hissing of breath as well, the Malfoy heir managed to get the loose shirt off, Harry easing it uncomfortably off his arms. The Gryffindor looked chastised and was blushing furiously, but he caught Draco’s eyes long enough to say awkwardly, “Look…um. Sorry. About snapping at you. I didn’t realize…”

“I’m not going to break into million pieces just because you say something,” Draco snapped back, feeling uncomfortable himself and fearful of getting pity from here on out. “And for the record, I would have called you a git if I were perfectly healthy, too.”

Harry’s eyebrows jumped upwards into his hair, and he made a brief sound of disbelief. “Suddenly I’m sorry for apologizing,” he replied, but without any real bite. It was actually rather unsettling, just how much the Potter boy let slide by instead of taking personally. In fact, despite having just helped half-undress another boy and being berated by him at every opportunity before now, Harry just sat down on the nearest bed, looking content to wait with him – not that Harry had a choice, considering that his presence was all that kept Draco was blowing up like one of the twins’ fireworks, but he could have looked resentful. 

But he didn’t. In fact, the Gryffindor golden-boy just looked relaxed, kicking his feet and fidgeting as he looked around the infirmary for something to interest him. Even when they’d been verbally squabbling, Harry hadn’t exhibited as much temper as Draco had been fully expecting – getting Harry mad for even a little while took effort. And then there was that strange distrustfulness that showed through sometimes… 

Draco decided that there was more to the Boy Who Lived than met the eye. 

 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks in this chapter goes to fellow Archivist Tonieblue, who wrote the first section of this chapter - I knew that I had to write Lucius's revenge, but my brain just didn't want to do it!! Being a Lucius fan herself and very angry on Draco's behalf, she graciously wrote up that section for me. I have edited it only a little. I hope you enjoyed!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few more classes with the Gryffindors - and one with the Slytherins as well, where things get tricky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will hopefully post a picture of Draco's scars eventually, because describing them is becoming a pain XP I think that I might even be changing their appearance - so just go with it.

~^~

The rest of the day was, for lack of a better term, dull.  Because of the pain of Draco’s injuries, they were excused from one class altogether, and the ones they did end up going to were pretty much repeats of earlier, so far as Draco could tell: Gryffindors doing idiotic things, Hermione staring at him like she really wanted to dissect him, and Ron just plain staring.  Things only got interesting when they had a class with the rest of the Slytherins.

“Hey.”  Draco jerked with an annoyed hiss as Harry elbowed him, speaking softly but forcefully.  The displaced Slytherin let his glare cool as he saw how Harry was looking at him: with one eyebrow raised and his mouth in a tight line.  Before Draco could say something reflexive and acerbic, Harry dove right to the point with typical, Gryffindor tact.  Meaning no tact at all.  “Just ignore them.”

Abruptly, Draco was forced to realize how transparent he must be if Potter was noticing his discomfort near his classmates.  The Slytherins had been staring at him, some of the worse one adding in smirks, scenting weakness as they saw everyone else in robes but Draco standing out just in the light button-down shirt – sticking out like a goblin amidst giants.  He’d been feeling their eyes like cold, sticky fingers on him, drawing him tauter and tauter by the second until, apparently, he’d become obvious enough that the Boy Who Lived had felt the need to point it out and give him advice.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Draco sulked back under his breath, looking forward again.

He was aware of Potter just staring at him for a moment, before the other boy sighed gustily.  “I give up,” he mumbled, and that was the end of their talking for the rest of class.  It was Charms, and Harry had a decided lack of interest, spending most of his time leaned back, slouched in his chair. 

Despite the fact that Professor Flitwick was about the friendliest professor in existence, he still had enough spine to notice just how little attention Harry was paying.  “Am I…Am I boring you, Mr. Potter?” the minute professor eventually asked, somehow managing to make it sound like an apology.

Again Draco watched the curious spectacle that was Harry when his name was called: he looked up and his eyes focused, blinked, and came to terms with the fact that he’d actually heard his name.  Maybe Draco would have been curious under normal circumstances, because he was a Malfoy, and knowledge was power to any Malfoy with his or her salt.  After finally coming to terms with the fact that he’d be stuck in Potter’s presence for the foreseeable future, however, it just felt more natural to try and tease him apart.  So now he watched, raising one eyebrow aloofly, as Potter blinked like an owl before flushing behind his glasses and starting to scramble for a polite answer, “Um…no. No, Professor.  Sorry, I’ll pay more attention.”

“Oh!”  Flitwick actually seemed surprised, engendering a few hidden snickers from the Slytherins, who were probably paying less attention than Potter but hiding it better.  “Good then.  Let’s move on then…”

Harry moaned in embarrassment as he tried to sink into his chair while simultaneously sitting up and paying attention – the combination caused such ridiculous fidgeting that Draco reached out and grabbed his arm.  If anything, the pale-haired boy was just as startled by his action as the brunette was, and both stared at each other ridiculously until Draco got over his surprise enough to glare and mutter, “Just sit still.  Flitwick doesn’t have enough cotton between his ears to hold a grudge so long as you don’t draw attention to yourself further.”

For a moment, Harry just blinked at him, as if unable to completely swallow how easily the slender Malfoy boy said that a professor had cotton for brains.  But when Draco let go of his arm, he sat up a bit – slowly – and then proceeded to actually sit still for the rest of class.  He still didn’t seem to really apply himself, but maybe he was planning on Granger writing his essays for him or something. 

Draco was once again more worried about the other Slytherins by the time class drew to a close, aware of at least three students who had been shooting him looks that hid more menace than the others.  Draco was particularly good at picking out such looks, and was pretty sure no one else had noticed – they probably just saw a few smirks at his expense and some innocent curiosity.  And since he couldn’t very well quantify the danger, there was no point in trying to appeal to anyone or explain it. 

Resigned, he leaned back in his chair, somehow managing to look more like he was elegantly lounging than Potter, who honestly only seemed able to sprawl.  Things were going to get unpleasant as everyone mingled and left the classroom, he knew, but he’d face it like a Malfoy. 

So when Flitwick finally remembered the time and dismissed them, Draco got up, somewhat mincing even though his scars were pleasantly numb, and turned to walk with pride towards the door.  He didn’t really take note of Potter, because of course Potter was following them – he had to.  Instead, the small Malfoy boy just kept walking, eyes forward but every other sense straining for some sort of underhanded attack. 

He’d just sensed one of the Slytherins moving up on his left to prod him or something when suddenly at least three books exploded from the wall bookcase.  Draco twitched, grey eyes going wide, and there was squalling as the same Slytherins Draco had been distrustfully watching were attacked by falling books.  Flitwick was trying to call things to order even while he got over his own surprise, but the one thing that Draco noticed?

Harry hadn’t even turned his head, but kept walking.  Never speeding up noticeably, he nonetheless put a companionable hand on Draco’s shoulder and pulled him along in his wake.  They made it out of the room along with the first few students, and just as Draco was narrowing his eyes suspiciously at the Boy Who Was Too Calm, Hermione popped out of the hubbub, too.  She looked torn between flustered and furious.  “Harry!!” she hissed, looking about furtively as she came right up to them, seeming to forget Draco existed as she glared at the bespectacled Potter boy.  As she got right up in his face (something that made Draco prickle without realizing why), Harry looked anywhere but at her.  “Harry, you did that, didn’t you?”

Draco’s eyebrows jumped up into his hairline and he couldn’t stop from talking.  “How could he?  He didn’t even say anything?”

Hermione’s head jerked his way, actually startled to find him part of the conversation.  Realizing that she’d been saying things amidst ‘mixed company’, she looked deeply uncomfortable, looking between Harry, the classroom, and Draco as if unsure where to find the answers and words she wanted.  “You can’t do that, Harry,” she said, less heatedly now. 

Still not understanding what they were going on about, Draco kept his eyebrows up and his voice skeptical.  “Do what?”

Sighing deeply and seeming to come to some decision (some decision that had Hermione immediately sucking in a breath to talk over him, her temper coming back in full, alarming force), Harry turned to Draco and said flatly, “I hurled those books.  I didn’t say or do anything, but I still did it.  All right?”

For a moment, Draco just stared at him as if he’d grown a second head.  “You’re barmy,” he finally said, then turned to go to their next class. 

Harry and Hermione had no choice but to follow. 

~^~

Severus murmured the few spell-words that would heat up the coals nestled in a bed along the glass aquarium; he carefully left some of them black and cool in some portions while he magically reinvigorated some to smoldering brightness.  He made a small, appreciative sound as something move amidst the blacks coals, revealing a snake of equally dark shades.  It’s glistening, midnight body stood out as it slithered onto the hot coals with apparent satisfaction, a jetty tongue flicking out to taste the hot air even as Severus carefully withdrew his wand and closed the catch on the aquarium’s lid.  When he heard the knock at his door, he immediately checked his wards – a habit by now, an old and trusted one – but found only a familiar sensation through them.  Smiling, the usually grouchy professor called, “Enter,” even as he unlocked the door with a flick of his wand. 

Most people didn’t even dare hunt Severus down in his own classrooms or even his offices, yet Lucius walked into his personal quarters without apparent qualms.  Out of the various adjoined rooms that made up Snape’s personal space, the one he was in now was probably a work area, with cauldrons and potion ingredients neatly arranged all around it, save the large aquarium he stood by now.  Lucius walked from the foyer right in, politely keeping his distance from anything in a glass vial.  “Ah!  You still have him, I see!” Lucius smiled his smooth smile as he looked at the ink-black snake nestled now amid its bed of hot coals. 

“Of course I still have Cineris,” Severus retorted good-naturedly, “Fire-snakes are bloody expensive.  Seeing as you saw fit to gift me with one _as well as_ an instruction manual on its proper care, I would have no excuse for it dying.”  Despite his rather acerbic words, it was a gentle hand that Snape laid against the glass.  Of course, the serpent hissed viciously at it, nearly attacking the glass, but Snape only curled his lips indulgently. 

“Still as good-tempered as his owner, I see,” Lucius prodded, looking amused. 

Snape grimaced but didn’t argue.  “There’s a reason I don’t keep him up in my main offices, or – goodness-forbid – my classroom.  Too many bumbling students who might ‘accidentally’ let him loose and then end up visiting the infirmary.”  Part of him rather relished the idea…until he reminded himself that, no matter how idiotic, weeding out the weak with a lethal, cranky fire-snake was not smiled upon by society in general.  Stepping away from his pet, Severus faced Lucius more squarely, growing serious as he tactfully prodded, “Speaking of the infirmary…”

As it was, the elder Malfoy was ahead of him, and while his calm façade grew brittle, his words were more relaxed than they could have been, “I have been to talk with Draco again, and as of supper, he is doing fine.  Madame Pomfrey said she had to see to him over the lunch hour, but he is coping.”  Before Lucius’s emotions could slip out, given freedom by the raw topic of his son’s condition, he changed the subject subtly, eyes growing sharp, “I actually came to ask your opinion on the Potter boy.”

Severus arched one brow, his own expression becoming shuttered.  It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Lucius…maybe it was, a bit, but mostly it was because Severus had lately been reevaluating his opinions of Harry Potter, and wasn’t sure how to respond.  He turned to lead his friend into the sitting room, using the excuse of politeness to buy himself some time.  “What of him?”

“So far, all I know is what the papers say-”

“Shameless propaganda,” Snape opined unrepentantly as he put on water for tea. 

Unflustered by the muttered interruption, Lucius reclined on the nearest couch and continued, “-And the fact that he is now, more or less, an integral part of my son’s wellbeing.”  Lucius’s eyes were sharp, holding some of that deadly glitter that had ended with the destruction of the seniors Crabbe and Goyle.  “As a father, I naturally am curious.”

“Well, you can add ‘Gryffindor extraordinaire’ to the list of things you know,” Snape informed him, “Which probably means your boy has nothing to worry about except developing bad habits for acts of witless bravery through association.”  Severus paused a minute, watching the tea-kettle but not seeing it, and finally said in a more serious voice, “I don’t think you or Draco had anything to worry about from the Potter boy.”

Silence followed, although Lucius waited some time for Severus to explain.  When he didn’t, Lucius coaxed expectantly, “Are you going to say I don’t have to worry because the Potter boy has the brains of a peacock, and therefore isn’t smart enough to pose a threat to me and mine?”  When Severus shot him a look and finally turned, Lucius smirked and spread his hands apologetically.  “It just sounded like something you would say, forgive me, old friend.”

Severus watched him a moment, narrow-eyed, then finally grunted as he found a seat as well, “You’re no more regretful a fox in a rabbit warren.”

“Perhaps,” Lucius allowed with a growing chuckle.  But he would not be deterred: “You were explaining the Potter boy to me, whom you’ve talked of quite acidly in the past, but now seem rather soft about.”

“Soft?”  Severus repeated the word as if offended by it. 

“You haven’t called him a dunderhead once.”

The realization that this was true made the Potions Master wince and look away, defending himself stiffly, “We’ve only been on the topic for five minutes.”

“And usually you’re raining invectives on the Potter name in under two,” Lucius informed him relentlessly, proving that he was indeed a politician beneath the relaxed veneer of the aristocrat.  Both men were good at word-games, but Lucius was more polished.  “So.”  He let the word hang, not a question so much as a gentle goad between friends. 

At long last, Severus stopped trying to hold onto his pride, instead letting it be known – at least to Lucius – that his general hatred for the Potter name might be waning a bit.  “For all that he is…an irritant…the Potter boy showed admirable resolve and sense when dealing with the news of your son and the Magicseal.  While his bravery was in true Gryffindor fashion and would have gotten him killed were circumstances any different-”  He did allow himself a slight sneer at that, because it was nothing short of true – if Harry were not so lucky, he’d be dead.  “-It also had the benefit of bringing to a halt a truly horrendous situation.  In short…”  He paused, looking down at his lap and the dark robes of it, his pale hands loosely resting on his thighs.

“In short?” Lucius repeated after a careful half-minute.

“In short, you did not see him alongside your son as I did.  I almost with Potter were a Slytherin, because he’s proven to be a greater ally to my godson than any of this classmates have been.”

~^~

While Draco and his father had sat just far enough away to eat and talk in relative privacy (likely assisted by a spell, although Lucius had politely hidden the movement of his wand as he cast the privacy spell), Harry had sat with Hermione and Draco.  Everyone else had pretty much eaten and left the Great Hall already, but Harry’s two friends seemed loath to leave him in what they considered was a state of distress.

He was pretty sure they were more distressed than he was. 

“Blimey, mate,” Ron sympathized in his own way, eyes rather huge, “It’s bad enough that you’re stuck with the slimy little sod every waking minute, but now you’re telling me you have to sleep in the Dungeons with him?!”

The connotation of ‘sleeping with him’ made Hermione flush and pin Ron with a scandalized look, Harry with a strained apologetic one, as if Ron’s poor phrasing were her fault for not teaching him better.  For his part, Harry didn’t see what the big deal was, especially since Ron seemed utterly oblivious to the innuendo.  Then again, Ron had only started to even get sexual innuendos, and Harry was well – trust Hermione to act older than her age.  “What Ron means to say,” Hermione cut in, “is that this is just horrid.  I wish the Headmaster would reconsider.” 

“I think we’d have to change Draco’s House colors at that point,” Harry tried to joke, casting a glance over at where Draco and his father were talking alone, both looking polite and aloof despite being family.  Still, the way they so easily sat next to each other and talked made a pang of jealousy hit behind Harry’s breastbone, because even with so many manners and formalities wrapped around it, the affection between father and son was obvious.  Harry could actually feel it through the magic of the two, although mostly it was Draco.  With Hermione and Ron already so worried about him staying the night in Slytherin House, Harry decided not to overburden them with the knowledge that he was actually becoming increasingly attuned to Draco’s magic – it wasn’t like his sensitivity to magic in general, which tended to overload him after awhile and make him irritable, but instead a matter of clarity.  Draco’s magic didn’t flare brighter in his mind, but rather showed more detail.  If it became a problem – and only then – he’d mention it to Madame Pomfrey. 

Maybe.  If there was on thing to be learned in the Dursley household, it was that weaknesses were not to be shared lightly.  He didn’t think that his two closest friends would take it poorly that he was a Sensitive, but still…  Harry wondered if this was what ‘old habits die hard’ meant, and felt a flare of anger at Dumbledore for making him grow up in a house that taught him to live like a singular entity in enemy territory.

Harry continued, cracking a smile to try and relax his friends, “I mean, he’s already spending the day with me – and Ron, how much do you really want to share a room with Malfoy?” 

It was a good shot, straight to the heart.  Ron turned a particularly shade of puce and seemed to imagine the scenario with dread.  Only a few seconds later did he realize that he was being selfish in putting his own discomfort first, and tried to backtrack, “But still, Harry!  Your being sent to the Dungeons…”  It was a weak protest now that Ron had considered the alternative, in which he and Draco would likely ending strangling each other in a no-holds-barred fight in under half and hour of each other’s company. 

“Really, guys, it’s fine!  I took care of those Slytherins in Charms class, didn’t I?” he boasted, flashing a somewhat smug smile that Ron immediately returned. 

Hermione, unsurprisingly, didn’t.  She grabbed Harry’s arm to get his attention, shooting him a serious look, “ _No_ wandless magic, Harry.  I mean it, you could get in a lot of trouble, even if unauthorized magic weren’t bad to begin with.”  The addition of Harry unauthorized magic being wandless would undoubtedly cause quite a stir. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask, Harry,” Ron cut in, probably saving Harry from a Hermione-sized lecture that was just getting underway.  This would have been a good thing, except for Ron had one of his rare perceptive looks on, freckled nose wrinkling slightly as his eyes narrowed questioningly.  “Why did you dump books on those Slytherins?  Not that it wasn’t brilliant, but you’ve kind of given us the idea that you try to hide that trick.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably, unsure how much to explain.  Hermione and Ron were wonderful friends and probably knew more about him than anyone to date, but there were still some things that were hard to spell out for them.  It would probably take too long to explain how he’d known that the three Slytherins were going to try and jump Draco as soon as they got out of class – he’d gotten to know the nuances of faces like that from Dudley and his friends, until he could tell the difference between people who thought menacing things and the people who would actually _act_.  Ron always got uncomfortable and Hermione always got a pitying look on her face when Harry mentioned things he’d picked up while growing up at the Dursleys.  At that point, he’d also have to admit that he was actually watching Draco and looking out for him, although Harry was possibly paranoid enough to have noticed the trouble even if he didn’t bother to look out for the small Slytherin at all. 

So he decided to explain the more obvious points – it wouldn’t be lying, and it would avoid going into details that would take to long to flesh out.  “As we were leaving, I saw them cutting through the other students towards Draco.  I think they probably wanted to poke him in the back or something, which would have been a neat joke-”  By ‘neat’ Harry really meant ‘blindingly unoriginal’.  “-Except for the scars Draco’s got.” 

And there was that ‘curiosity-killed-the-cat’ look on Hermione’s face again.  Harry sighed.  “What is it, ’Mione?”

“What do they look like?  The scars, I mean?” she finally bubbled over and asked. 

Harry grimaced, discomfited at thinking back to when he’d seen them – first when Draco had been unconscious, looking even more slender and fragile as he’d slept in the infirmary, and second when he’d had to actually help the boy out of his shirt.  His eyes had helplessly followed the arcs and swoops of the strange, silvered marks as they flared up Draco’s back and chest, representative of dangerous magic but somehow ludicrously beautiful and artistic all the same.  “They…” he tried to explain, fumbling for words as he inwardly tried to untangle how he felt about the memory, “They look a lot like tattoos, one on his chest, one on his back, only in silver.”

“Magical scars are like that sometimes, in reading I’ve come across,” Hermione nodded, rapt. 

Nodding unenthusiastically but in agreement nonetheless (if Hermione said she’d read it, it was true – he and Ron had long since given up arguing with that), Harry added, “I saw a silver kestrel once, with its wings spread.  It reminded me of the scars a bit.”  Before he was forced to try and explain more, he noticed the shift in magic heralding Lucius’s leaving: the man was standing now, looking as elegant and proper as ever, and fixing Harry with an unreadable look that could have been anything from speculative to murderous.  The elder Malfoy didn’t give anything away. 

Lucius abruptly broke eye-contact with Harry and instead placed a careful, caring hand on Draco’s shoulder, leaning down to say some last thing to him that made his son smile.  Then he dipped his head a regal fraction to the room at large and made his exit.

“Guess we’d better get a move-on then,” Harry said, pushing back his long-since-empty plate and getting up.  He was sick of sitting still and talking about such complicated, delicate thing, and wanted nothing more than to walk.  Fortunately, Draco didn’t seem all too surprised by that, and got up quite naturally to follow.  

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for Lucius and Severus time \\(^u^)/ And Lucius was so nice, giving Sev a pet ;) Anyway - hopefully I'll be able to make the transition to Severus more or less liking/tolerating Harry without too much fuss. Snape is still a cranky bat, so he won't be _nice_ by any stretch, but hopefully I've laid the groundwork for decency. 
> 
> And now I have to balance out who knows what about Harry...shoot
> 
> Ignore these ramblings as you wish ^^ Hope you enjoyed!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Night falls, and Harry must enter the Slytherin common-room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter didn't want to get started, but once it did - it was hilarious to write! At long last, you get to meet Blaise, as well as a few other Slytherins. Just as a warning: my other characters are probably not canon-compliant in the slightest. I might even use them in the wrong years, in the future (sometimes on purpose, sometimes on accident - I'm never sure).

~^~

Seemingly everyone’s head lifted as Draco came into the room, and for once, it wasn’t because of Draco – it was definitely out of interest in the Gryffindor companion trailing along in his wake.  There was no way that anyone had missed the memo of who he was and why he was with Draco, but everyone was still staring at Potter as if an undiscovered species of insect. 

Draco sighed and the inevitability of conflict, and looked askance at Potter as the other boy drew even with him.  Somehow, it was easy to forget that Potter was actually a small kid – not necessary fragile like Draco was and felt, but still pretty scrawny.  However, as he stepped up and viewed the room with more calm than anyone could have expected from him, he didn’t look all that small to Draco.  Maybe that was just because the Malfoy boy was pretty much on par with him. 

“So, a lion in the snake pit?” Bulstrode was the first to speak up, tilting her nose as if sniffing the air unfavorably.  She was one of those who’d quite easily gone along with whatever Crabbe and Goyle had cooked up for him, but her mean streak had never quite tipped over into the same level of torture.  “I thought the great Harry Potter would spontaneously combust if he came in here.”  Her words sent some of the other girls to tittering behind their hands, a pathetic attempt at tact if Draco had ever seen it. 

“Um…I don’t seem to be,” Harry answered quite honestly, rubbing a hand over the hair at the back of his head until Draco honestly wanted to pat it down, it became such a briar-brush of dark-brown hair.  “I guess I’ll see how long I last, since the Headmaster says I’ll be rooming with you guys for a bit.” 

Honestly, Potter’s manners were incredible – or, rather, his tolerance was.  Draco  couldn’t understand how or why, but the other boy was talking as if he couldn’t hear the insult slipping through Bulstrode’s words.  It gave him a remarkably naïve look, and Draco looked away with a small growl in his throat.  Naiveté was never a good way to start in Slytherin.  

“Oh yeah,” chimed in one of the older Slytherin boys, “I heard – because Malfoy will blow up if you leave, right?”  He made dramatic gestures with his hands and explosive noises for the benefit of those who lacked the brain cells to understand what ‘blow up’ meant. 

Draco felt his temper rising, but thanks to much practice, he maintained a steady, level calm on the outside like a frigid layer of ice.  Still, he was pretty sure he was at least frowning, and if he stuck around much longer, some incriminating color was going to start rising up his neck and to his cheeks.  Making it worse was the fact that Potter had become the Boy Who Was Oblivious, and it was too much to watch.  “I’m going to retire,” he announced suddenly, his voice commanding attention even while the haughty tone made it clear how little he thought of all of them.  Then, just to prove that Harry wasn’t attached to him, he walked off and up towards his room, reasonably sure that he’d still be close enough to the other boy that his magic wouldn’t slip loose…

Reasonably sure.  Unease coiled in his gut as he escaped everyone. 

He was just a little bit too abrupt for Potter to reasonably follow him, not without looking like a wayward puppy, but after getting halfway up the stairs, Draco rather wished that the other boy had followed anyway.  Ever since waking up in the infirmary, he’d felt almost normal – uncomfortable because of the scars, but inwardly just fine.  Now, however, he was startled to feel a tingling sensation starting in his chest like a sizzling firework beginning to burn just behind his Solar Plexus.  With every step, it crackled more hotly, and by the time Draco made it up to his room and pushed the door shut behind him, he was shaking. 

Yikes, how far had he gotten?!  And already he was learning just what Potter’s absence could do.  Being told that he had to stay near Harry (for the safety of himself and everyone around him) had been unsettling enough, but having the words turned into tangible sensations was like a slap in the face as Draco felt his magic roiling turbulently at his core.  It wasn’t out of control, but it definitely felt like a precariously-full cauldron of boiling water, bumped carelessly to set it sloshing within its confines.  Breathing tightly and quickly through his nose, the Malfoy boy tried to focus himself, closing his eyes determinedly.  When he opened them, however, it was to notice his new scars glowing faintly beneath the light material of his shirt.  He swore colorfully before pushing off the door to stumble to his bed, hauling himself up onto it and just sitting there, head in hands.  His magic crackled and shifted and expanded and faded beneath his skin, only hurting as it reached out far enough to feel like it touched the remnants of the Magicseal.  Then Draco hissed in a frustrated breath at the bright, cold sting.  “Bugger it all,” he snarled, then froze as – very belatedly – he looked up to see Blaise Zabini staring at him from his bed across the room. 

The dark-skinned boy hadn’t said anything, although his eyes were a little wide as he looked over the top of the book that he’d probably been reading until Draco had stumbled in.  Draco and Blaise hadn’t interacted much before, but he’d pegged the boy to be a dichotomy of charming and quiet – sometimes he was one, sometimes the other.  Right now, he didn’t move or say a word for a long moment, until he put down his book and asked carefully, “You all right, Draco?”

“Fine,” snipped the Malfoy boy reflexively, turning his head away and resting it moodily on his arms, which were wrapped over his knees.  Shortly thereafter, he winced at what a lie that was, with too much magic waking up beneath his skin.  Whatever Potter’s magic did to soothe Draco’s magic into complacency was still working somewhat despite the distance, but it was clearly far less effective. 

Blaise was a smart character, but also remarkably wise for his age.  Therefore, he sat in silence and thought on his words for a bit longer before hazarding in a carefully, perfectly neutral tone, “Rumors say that you’re supposed to stay close to Harry Potter.”

The truth of that galled Draco, and he hunched moodily closer to his knees.  “Do you always believe gossip, Zabini?” he retorted unkindly, unable to even dredge up his usual, cool manners to blunt the edge of his frustrated temper.  He didn’t want to admit – to himself or anyone else – that part of what he was feeling was fear. 

“I believe the gossip when it comes from Professor Snape,” Blaise answered coolly, and Draco slanted a wary eye at him.  However, the smooth, chocolaty features were empty of malice, or at least Zabini was hiding it very well.  Draco was saved from trying to figure out that mask by the door opening again, admitting the tousled head and garish colors of the one Gryffindor in Slytherin. 

“Finished amusing the natives, I see?” Draco immediately turned his acerbic tongue on someone else, since Blaise somehow seemed immune.  The dark-skinned boy immediately returned to his reading, pretending for all the world that he wasn’t in the room at all.  Harry watched him for a moment, clearly trying and failing to figure the other boy out, before turning back to Draco. 

“What are you going on about, Malfoy?”

Draco snorted, relaxing to sit at the edge of the bed with his legs hanging off.  He suppressed the urge to sigh and rolled his head back in relief as his magic immediately began to settled down again; it felt like a serpent curling up again in his stomach, warmth lulling it to sleep.  Perhaps that was why Draco’s response was a little bit less biting and little bit more professional as he looked at Harry and told him frankly, “This is Slytherin House.  They’re going to be bating you and testing you from the moment you walk in.  And if you don’t notice it, all the worse for you – it’ll be like blood in the water to sharks.”  He shook his head, showing his disbelief in this as he curled his lip a bit and demanded, “Did you really think they were just being friendly?”

Through the course of Draco’s brief monologue, Harry’s face had shown irritation with increasing clarity, until he was glaring at the pale-haired boy from behind his glasses.  Usually calm, he nonetheless snapped back with a jaded sigh, “Do you think I’m bloody blind, Malfoy?  Of course I knew they were all being pricks down there.”

That was unexpected.  Draco would never have guessed from Harry’s open, relaxed face that he’d understood a bit of what was going down own there, and now the Malfoy boy’s eyes widened a bit.  “You know that they’ll just keep at it if you ignore them,” he recovered his aplomb enough to note. 

Harry was still aware of Blaise, but only watched the other boy for a moment more before turning back to Draco and crossing his arms.  As he tilted his head and looked down his nose a bit, it was impossible to tell if he was purposefully mimicking Draco or not in one of his prideful moments.  “Yeah, well, it worked well enough for me to kick Bullfrog’s wand under the couch far enough that she won’t find it anytime soon,” he said flatly and without visible remorse.  As Draco sat up a bit straighter and even Blaise started to look interested, Harry added with a shrug, “And from what I saw of her in Charms, she doesn’t know enough to be able to find it magically.”

“You-”  Draco found it hard to talk because he was actually on the verge of laughing.  He tried not to smile as he stopped his first sentence to start over, still almost chuckling, “First off, her name’s Millicent _Bulstrode_ , not Bullfrog, you illiterate prat.”

“She looks like a bullfrog.  Close enough,” Harry argued with a mean little narrowing of his eyes, showing that Draco wasn’t the only one capable of being temperamental.

This wilier side of Potter was a far cry from what Draco had expected, and for the first time, he began to feel a flicker of wary respect for how the other boy had handled things.  He was still resentful of the fact that he was attached to the Boy Who Lived to Surprise for his magical wellbeing, but for a moment, he was able to forget that.  “You really played the air-head just to mess with them?”

“Not to mess with them,” Harry argued, maybe looking a bit embarrassed about his actions now – perhaps his Gryffindor morals had finally kicked in, reminding him how un-chivalrous it was to deceive others.  “Just to – I don’t know.”  He lifted his hand in that familiar gesture again, rubbing at the back of his head before lifting both hands helplessly.  “That was what they expected, so that’s what I gave them.  It all works better for me if they all think I’m a dunce, especially if it means that…admittedly rotten girl…drops her guard so much that someone can get at her wand.”

Draco had to admit that Bulstrode had reached a new height of idiocy on that one.  If she was so lax as to let Potter – a Gryffindor – toe her wand under the couch, then she honestly deserved it.  That her wand had been on the floor to begin with showed a general lack of sense, and Draco suddenly wished he’d been the one to do it.  “That…wasn’t quite as idiotic a move as I had expected,” Draco carefully praised, actually allowing an impish smile to spread across his face.

Harry snorted but moved to crash back into his bed, all sprawled limbs and Gryffindor red and gold.  “And that wasn’t as prattish a comment as I had expected,” he lightly cheered back, “Good job, Malfoy.”

As Draco snickered and prepared a suitable comeback, Blaise finally spoke up, never raising his voice but nonetheless gaining both of his roommates’ attentions, “She really does look like a bullfrog.”  As he lifted gold-brown eyes from his book to calmly take in both pairs of eyes staring at him – wary silver and surprised, perplexed green – he added with a broad, smooth, nonchalant smile, “I figured I should speak up before I became a room fixture rather than a roommate.”

“Harry Potter – Blaise Zabini, and so forth,” Draco introduced with brevity, deciding that was the best way to deal with Zabini now that the dark-skinned boy had switched from being silent to being charming.  He was young, but it was already obvious that he had looks the girls would swoon over later in life, especially with the way he could exude confidence with the flick of some internal switch – which turned on this smile of his.  As Harry – cautious but game for introduction – got up and walked over, Blaise quit his book to stand up smoothly, reminding Draco of his lanky frame.  It looked like the smallest members of Slytherin had all be put in the same room, although Blaise at least had height – he stood taller than Harry by half-a-head, and would no doubt stretch up even more as he grew. 

“Hi,” Harry said awkwardly as handshakes were exchanged, Blaise still smiling his relaxed grin.  He immediately sat down again, happy to return to his book.  Harry looked back at Draco, raising an eyebrow in silence (and rather obvious) question: ‘ _What am I supposed to make of_ him?’

Since Draco didn’t have an answer to that – he was still on the fence about Zabini but at least the other First Year hadn’t been antagonistic – he simply said loftily, “Get ready for bed, Potter, before you brain explodes from all the new experiences.”

As with most of the other times that Draco had retorted something, Harry didn’t get near as mad as expected – in fact, he just snorted, called Draco a prat under his breath, and returned to the chest of clothes at the foot of his bed.  “So, um, Blaise – you know about-”  He gestured between himself and Draco in the most awkward fashion imaginable, earning him an exaggerated eye-roll from Draco.  “-This?  The whole situation with Draco’s magic and mine being complementary?”

“Yes,” said the other boy in his smooth, accepting voice, honey-touched like his eyes on his dark face, “The Headmaster took me aside and explained it to me, although he needn’t have, because Snape did the same.”

It probably sounded odd to Harry to be hearing the title ‘Snape’ without a sneer automatically attached, but the brown-haired boy took it well, brows beetling a bit before he just took that in with a nod.  Blaise kept explaining, so everyone knew what page he was on, “I know that you two are supposed to stick around each other, and that’s pretty much the extent of my knowledge.”  He held up a hand immediately, finishing, “And I’m honestly not curious enough to want to know more.  I’m getting ready for bed now.”  Oblivious to the rather perplexed and impressed stares being directed at him both by the Boy Who Lived and the heir to the House of Malfoy, Blaise rolled elegantly off the far side of his bed, shucking his robes efficiently and without embarrassment.  Still trying to get a handle on his lanky, smooth-talking boy, Harry paused until he realized he was staring, and then made to head to the shared bathroom.

Draco beat him to it.  With alacrity that came from dodging Crabbe and Goyle, he slipped off the bed, grabbing his pajamas and darting past Harry and into the bathroom with only a perfunctory, “Mine!”  He made it sound light, but in reality, he’d had a moment of panic tat the thought of dressing in front of people, especially Blaise who didn’t have any intimate knowledge of his knew scars.  Draco closed the door behind him, wishing that it locked, but logically seeing how such a thing could be abused – from what he’d heard, Bulstrode and Pansy would be impossible to dislodge from the bathroom if a lock were ever to be put in place.

But Draco was pretty sure that neither Zabini nor Potter would barge in, at least not if he didn’t take a millennia to come back out again and let them use the space.  So the Malfoy boy got the important bit done first – removing his shirt.  It would be the first time he’d gotten a look at the Magicseal scars in a mirror, and the thought made a fine tremor start up in his hands as he carefully worked the buttons loose, opening up the shirt bit by bit to reveal the lines upon his chest.  He found it impossible to look up and into the reflection in the mirror, and he suddenly wished he was in the company of one of the paintings – he missed their comforting, nonjudgmental chats, but with Potter always there, he didn’t want to seem like a complete loon by talking to the paintings.  In truth, before now, he’d talked to the paintings more than he’d talked to people.  The shirt slipped off his narrow shoulders to pool on the floor, and still it took monumental effort for Draco to lift his head.  Somehow, the presence of the mirror seemed accusatory, and he lifted his chin when he looked at it finally, as if facing a tormenter.

The sight that greeted him made him queasy.  The silvery scars raced up his chest like silver stitches, as if he’d been torn open and improperly sewn shut, the work of a sadistic surgeon.  He touched on line and grimaced, feeling the skin still raised and raw despite Madame Pomfrey’s work.  It hurt to touch, although he recalled the Mediwitch saying that he shouldn’t feel any pain until morning.  This new, unfortunate development probably had to do with him distancing himself from Potter and nearly blowing up, but the discomfort was manageable, if uncomfortable.  He hated the way the lines stretched across his pale skin, trying to contain and own him, and he had to fist his hands at his sides to resist the urge to scratch at one of the scars, knowing that that would not remove them but only make it worse.  He turned, finding equal horror at the sight of his back with its similar, arcing pattern of jagged lines and crooked starbursts.  The Malfoy boy was breathing a bit too fast and didn’t realize how unsettled he was until he finally met his own eyes in the mirror, finding them reddened and rimmed with wetness.  Quickly, he brought up a hand to scrub at them, banishing the evidence of tears. 

“Hey, Malfoy?”  Potter’s hesitant voice was matched by his knock on the door, startling Draco.  Even as the displaced Gryffindor kept talking, Draco reflexively moved his foot to wedge the door shut, although Potter didn’t even try to turn the knob, “You okay in there?”

“Fine,” Draco snapped back, just as he’d done to Zabini but probably with a bit more sharpness.  He winced at his tone, glad at least that his voice hadn’t cracked with tension or emotion.  “Stop being so impatient, you’re like a girl!” he went on to cover it, quickly grabbing up his pajama top and pulling it on, swiftly doing up the buttons.  His pajama bottoms were quickly donned as well. 

“I’m not being impatient!” Harry said back with some pique from the other side of the door, but some comment – said warmly and with audible amusement – from Zabini drew him back from the door apparently before an argument could really start up. 

Draco pulled the door open as soon as he was dressed again, looking archly out at both other boys (sitting on their respective beds, looking as if they’d been chatting) before turning to brush his teeth.  “You can come in now if you’re so eager,” he challenged, the effect ruined by the fact that he was talking around a mouthful of toothpaste.  By the time he spat it out in the sink, Harry was walking in, also holding toothpaste and toothbrush but still in day-clothes.  Draco watched, a bit bemused, as the Gryffindor boy made no move to change – just started brushing his teeth.  “Do you Gryffindors sleep in your clothes or what?” Draco boldly asked.  Slytherins _did_ believe in tact, but they didn’t believe in sugarcoating of soft-pedaling remarks. 

For once, Potter just shot him a shuttered, unreadable look.  It was an unfamiliar look on his face, which was usually either embarrassed, surprised, or slightly annoyed – the closest that Draco could recall to seeing this expression had actually been when he’d seen Potter are Dumbledore.  The bespectacled boy had worn a faintly warning look, but everything else in his expression was locked away.  It was a very serious expression for a First Year Gryffindor who was proving to have such a tolerant temper.  “Maybe I just don’t want to strip down to my skivvies in front of _you_ , Malfoy,” he eventually retorted, but it lacked bite, and Draco could sniff a lie in a minute.  Now that the pale-haired Malfoy had finished brushing his teeth, however, he had no excuse to stay in the bathroom, as much as he wanted to pry apart the reason for Harry’s odd behavior. 

After standing with the fingers of one hand stubbornly clutching the edge of the sink, Draco quit his loitering and left he bathroom.  He was a bit surprised when the door immediately was closed behind him, although, as he turned around to consider the closed door, he realized that both he _and_ Harry Potter had just insisted on dressing in private. 

Blaise Zabini, quiet enigma that he was, made no comment but to pull the drapes closed around his bed without a word.

~^~

Harry came out only a few minutes later, wearing a simple, Muggle nightshirt of unadorned grey and sweatpants of a darker shade.  Draco, being a Pureblood of some repute and not a little wealth, had silk pajamas of green with silver trim.  He cocked an eyebrow at Harry’s attire.

“What?” the Potter asked.

Draco thought for a moment before speaking his mind, “I thought the Weasleys clothed you.”  It was just a snippet of information he remembered hearing – some joke or other that the Slytherin common-room had been chuckling over during one of the rare intervals when Crabbe and Goyle had bothered Draco enough for one day.  Draco also recalled, now that the thought of it, that Harry’s ‘relaxed attire’ general consisted of ugly, hand-knitted sweaters two sizes to big.

That got Harry’s brows to jump up into his hairline a second before a turn a shade of red – a sign that Draco had struck true.  He must have thought better than to try and deny the perceptive accusation, because he busied himself with turning down his covers while griping with a long-suffering sigh, “If Mrs. Weasley insisted on sending you clothing for every little occasion, you’d quickly find some dull clothing, too.”

“And by ‘dull’ do you mean not swallowing your whole?” Draco felt the need to joke back, smiling a bit.

Harry looked back over his shoulder, catching the smirk and actually returning it, somewhat mischievously.  “And not so brightly colored that I’m afraid my eyes will burn?” he added playfully to Draco’s narrative instead of getting offended.

The novelty of bantering like this – his sharp tongue being turned back on him with a softened, jovial edge – made Draco’s cunning smile crack wider.  “Careful, Potter – offend your seamstress and you won’t get any more sweaters for Christmas.”

Potter actually groaned, plopping onto his bed again.  “Don’t say Christmas!  Ron and the twins have already told me that it will only get worse.”  Looking up at the canopy of his bed with the most comical morose expression, Potter explained, “I’ve only been adopted by the Weasleys this year, but I’m already dreading the fact that it apparently gets worse.”  He turned his head to Draco, belatedly realizing how rudely he was talking about the motherly Mrs. Weasley.  “She’s a wonderful woman, honestly-”

“Tell that to your wardrobe,” Draco said with mock scathingness, remembering more and more glimpses he’d seen of Potter in the hallway now, wearing some atrocious gift of Weasley make.  “I might have to disown you as my Resonant if you keep wearing such abominable things,” Draco finished, nose wrinkling. 

Harry was still laughing instead of being irritated, and almost seemed surprised by that.  “Resonant?” he echoed.

Draco shrugged as if it would be obvious to anyone who was not a lack-wit.  “That whole bit about your magic being in a complementary resonance with mine and what-not.  ‘Resonant’ is what my father called it, and it’s surely shorter to say than explaining the whole thing.  But I am serious – I might die of embarrassment if I’m stuck with you _and_ one of the Weasel’s Christmas sweaters,” he threatened.

“I bet all you get is coal for Christmas, Malfoy.”

There was still no bite in the sentence.  Draco began drawing his curtains, scars still a bit sore from his earlier mishap, but his mood much improved.  “For your information, I can get anything I bloody want for Christmas.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I’m rich.  There’s a difference, however slight,” Draco informed the other young boy, “Good night, Potter.” 

“Good night, Malfoy.  Hey – do me a favor?”  Potter had been drawing the heavy drapes, too, but now poked his head out.

Sincerely curious, Draco looked back.  “What?”

The answering grin was completely impish.  “Don’t let your ego suffocate your in your sleep, yeah?”

Draco threw a pillow at him before retreating behind the curtain to sleep, refusing to admit that he felt so relaxed and at home in the presence of a Harry Potter of Gryffindor.

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been avoiding all of the canon from the first movie, but I'm hoping to finally get to Quirrell's bief 'Troll in the Dungeon' speech. But be warned that this story is mostly about Draco and Harry - not the rise and fall of the Dark Lord. 
> 
> Still - I hope you enjoy! There will still be lots of action as things progress :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mornings with Draco and Harry (and Blaise). And a bit more time with Severus and Lucius ;) Lucius gives snakes to show his affection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another last-minute post! I really need to start keeping on top of these postings... Anyway, this chapter starts hinting a bit more at Sev/Lucius, so I hope you enjoy! It's a bit more angsty on Draco and Harry's part, but they're young yet.

~^~

Draco was not a morning person, and was unhappy to find that he was the sole occupant of this room who had that problem. 

“Come on, Draco,” came Blaise’s voice, light but abominably cheery, “Unless you want to be late for breakfast, you might want to get up.”

The Malfoy boy groaned, considering rolling over right up until his chest and back protested – the slivers of pain that danced along his skin were a bad reminder that the Magicseal was not just a bad dream.  Still, he pushed the discomfort down with minimal effort, focusing his attention instead on glaring balefully out from under the covers.  Blaise was standing at the door already, dressed and smart-looking in his robes, looking eager to leave already.  The dark-skinned boy raised a brow at Harry, who was awake as well, Draco followed his gaze to note.  The displaced Gryffindor was sitting slouched on the bed, however, still in the cheap-looking sleep-clothes he’d gone to bed in.  Draco narrowed his eyes, unable to believe the level of utter wildness Potter’s hair had accomplished in just one night.  “Did you sleep with an electric eel?” were Draco’s first words that morning, making the direction of his focus clear as he continued to stare at the unkempt spikes and tangles of Harry’s hair. 

“Go on ahead, Blaise,” the Potter boy said with a wry smirk, “He’s up.  We’ll follow later.”  Blaise shot Harry a rather sympathetic look, pitying him for having to deal with Draco in the morning, and then slipped out the door without any more hesitation. 

After that, the room got pleasantly quiet.  Instead of going over and giving Draco a shake or continuing to try and verbally coax him into an upright position, Harry just resumed sitting.  Draco would have happily gone back to sleep if he weren’t so befuddled by the sight of a Gryffindor actually sitting still.  “Aren’t you going to try and make me get up?” he found his traitorous tongue asking belligerently, “Tell me how I’ll miss breakfast, be late for Potions?  Oh, and that you will, too, since you’re stuck with me.”

Harry jumped in much the same way he did when his name was called, looking over at Draco as if he’d forgotten about him.  “Well, yeah, I’d like breakfast, but if you’re this snarky already, I can’t imagine things will get better if I try and get you out of bed.”

“And missing breakfast doesn’t faze you?”

“None of the Gryffindors eat like my cousin Dudley, not even Ron,” Harry rolled his eyes, quiet open, surprisingly, now that the room was empty but for himself and Draco.  “If I can sneak in at the last moment and sneak food past _him_ , I can afford to be a little late to breakfast.”  Harry winced, realizing, “Although being late to Potions…doesn’t exactly sound like a spectacular idea to me.”

Maybe it was the fact that the banter had woken Draco up, or maybe it was that his new scars were aching just a bit too much for him to easily catch a few more winks.  Either way, he pushed back the blankets and conquered a sitting position.  He ran his fingers through his hair, silvers strands untangling easily.  “Your head really does look like a bird’s nest, Potter,” he felt the need to comment again.

“Thank you, Malfoy.  And may I say, your attitude in the morning is certainly a wonderful thing.  Are done complimenting each other now?”

“Git,” Draco bit out, only with half of the sharpness he usually had.  He got to his feet and went to hunt up his robes, wincing at the stiffness of his own movements as the marks on his skin twinged.  He was aware of Harry sitting forward and sliding off the bed as well.

“You okay, Malfoy?”

“Bloody perfect,” mumbled the slender, pale-haired boy back.  He stood up to quickly and was nearly floored by the wave of pain that splintered like cracked ice across his back.  He stood stiffly, head tipped back and eyes closed as he bit his lip, waiting for the pain to fade.  Harry’s hand on his arm didn’t even surprise him.  All told, he’d lost the will to snap at the other boy.

“Hurts that bad, huh?” Harry asked softly, but in a neutral tone that managed not to belittle.  It allowed Draco to breathe again, relaxing slowly.  “Pomfrey will want to see you about that, you know.”

Draco barked out a short, bitter laugh, unused to the positive attention from kids his age.  “You’re awfully eager to miss breakfast, aren’t you, Potter?  If I go down to the infirmary, you’ll be walking away from food.”

Letting his hand drop but his shoulders rise in a shrug, the Gryffindor said seemingly without thinking, “I’ve gone longer without food, so it wouldn’t kill me.”

Draco blinked and turned to his erstwhile companion, eyes narrowed.  Draco wasn’t exactly a caring person, but he _was_ observant, and every time he turned around he was observing something new and odd about the Boy Who Lived.  Harry had flushed, perhaps realizing what he’d said, and was running a nervous hand back through his hair – making it stand up even more.  “Stop that!” Draco snapped in exasperation as he grabbed the Gryffindor by the wrist, “If I have to see your hair defying gravity anymore, I’ll go barmy!”

“First my clothes, now my hair,” Potter managed to grin sheepishly, grasping the change of subject readily, “Do you critique all the people you meet, Malfoy?” 

“Just shut it and get dressed, Potter.  If I have to go see Pomfrey, then I’m going to do it fast enough to get breakfast, too.  A Malfoy does _not_ miss meals.”  Deciding that he’d had enough verbal sparring with the other boy, Draco strutted away to the bathroom to change, once again stubbornly refusing to undress with company.  Once again, Harry seemed completely fine with that, and by the time Draco came out, Harry was dressed as well, trying to tame his hair with moderate success.  The two were left staring at each other, well aware that both of them were showing some rather unusual quirks, and that each noticed the other. 

Draco drew himself up, daring Potter to question him about his shyness.  It was a novel experience, to stand up to a boy who wasn’t twice his weight at the least – being of a height with another boy was actually new.  Not that the Gryffindor looked intimidated, although his eyes narrowed fractionally behind his glasses at Draco’s posturing.  Finally, he surprised Draco by sighing, “Are we going to stand here all day or go eat breakfast?”

“You know, I might like you, Potter,” Draco looked down his nose at Harry to say regally, causing the other boy to roll his eyes.  The fact that Draco might actually have been a _little_ bit serious was not discussed

~^~

“Um…Lucius, what are you doing?” Severus actually stuttered – it was a monumental moment, as arguably the most feared professor at Hogwarts lost his usually calm expression in favor a startled, flabbergasted one.  He’d honestly not noticed the rent in his wards telling him that someone was in his office, because he was used to the elder Malfoy.  Though it had been years ago, there was still a comforting feel to his magic when it was nearby, as if Snape were still tagging along and calming young-Lucius’s turbulent magic.  It was a breach in his usually tight security that would have bothered him – after all, if he was ignoring strangers trespassing in his space, what trouble could come his way without warning?

He would have worried about this if he weren’t so busy staring at Lucius transfiguring a giant glass aquarium into the back wall of his office. 

The blonde-haired aristocrat turned around, face relaxed as if this weren’t strange at all.  His wand didn’t even quiver, instead smoothly bringing out the sides of the aquarium by another half a meter.  A smile grew on his thin lips and danced in his eyes as he noted the clearly ruffled look on Severus’s face – in fact, the Potions Master looked like he might be choking.  “Creating a habitat, of course.  Really, Severus, you can’t expect to keep a snake that big in anything less.”

“A snake that-?”  Severus was a very, very controlled man, known for having a face like stone that never moved unless he wanted it to – usually tending towards sneering, because of how it made the students quiver.  Right now, however, he was in a state of flustered shock that was knocking him quite fully out of his usual calm state.  He finally dragged in a deep breath, covering his eyes with his hand and bracing himself with another cautionary hand against the wall.  Forcing his voice back to something resembling its usual, low tones, he spoke with strained patience, “What in Morgana’s name are you talking about, Lucius?” 

Lucius lowered his wand and stopped his casting, but only because it looked like he was done and satisfied with his work.  He cocked his head at the new glass enclosure taking center-stage behind Snape’s desk now, eyes glinting with pleasure.  “I got you a present, my dear friend,” the silver-tongued aristocrat said jovially as he finally turned around, movements as smooth as ever.  It somehow made Severus look more haggard, because this little surprise of Malfoy’s was just about giving him grey hairs.  “In thanks for your support in my _endeavors_ yesterday,” he elaborated without any indication that he regretted what he’d done to the elders Crabbe and Goyle. 

“Believe me, no thanks was necessary,” Snape grated out, unable to pull his eyes away from the aquarium, whose purpose was still unknown.  The stubborn part of him just wanted to remove the thing, but when Lucius was feeling giving, it was foolish to turn him away. 

“Oh, come now, Severus,” Lucius coaxed.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?  Confusing a grown man and leaving him hanging with no answer?” Severus deadpanned as he came to this realization.  He’d dropped his hand from his face, but was tempted to put it back again.  Instead, he just moved far enough in to collapse into his chair.  “I’d prefer an explanation now rather than later, lest you with to see a Potions Master truly unhappy,” he growled meaningfully.

Obviously enjoying messing with his old comrade too much to let the game end so quickly, Lucius grinned a little bit more sharply and noted, “I’d be much more intimidated to see a _Death Eater_ truly unhappy, but if you want to throw around your more socially acceptable title-”

“Stop pushing your luck, Malfoy, and tell me why you’ve bloody transfigured half of my wall.”

Lucius’s eyes narrowed, but instead of being in anger or an affronted way, there seemed to be a secret pleasure at Severus’s threatening tone.  It took a lot of work to get Severus ruffled, beyond the simple irritation of witless students.  Lucius was a pro at it, however, and the same temperament that had caused him to side with the Dark Lord made him unhealthily attracted to that low snarl of Severus’s voice.  He decided to give in, however, because their friendship ended in hexes. 

It still very likely might.

Aware that Snape watched him warily but didn’t actually try and stop him (proving that the black-haired wizard was more curious than annoyed, beneath the murderous façade), Lucius performed a quick spell that suddenly filled the inside of the tank with a _snap_.  Where there had previously been earth and stones and exotic plants beneath a heat-lamp, there was now a mass of scales wrapped around a body as thick around as Severus’s thigh and probably long enough to wrap around Hagrid.  “A token of my gratitude,” Lucius said as pleasantly as you please to the slack-jawed look on Severus’s face.  It was a look that no student – or even faculty – would have believed existed, and one he’d certainly never live down if anyone saw such a shocked expression on his face, so Severus kicked the door closed without ever looking away from the massive snake now living in his office.  He just stared for the count of a full minute, as the serpent shifted about, shaking off the effects of being magically transported. 

Finally, he managed to close his jaw, giving himself a minute shake as he regained his composure.  Severus did a fairly good job of pretending that he’d never been flustered in the slightest as he looked down and pretended to straighten his robes.  “You’re quite pleased with yourself, aren’t you, Lucius?” he said with some of his more usual snarkiness.

Lucius, of course, was smirking like a well-fed cat still tasting the proverbial canary.  “Of course I am – do you know how hard it is to acquire a Vascillai Pit Viper that isn’t horrendously interbed?” he replied congenially.

“I’m referring to my own shock, Lucius,” Severus swallowed his pride to remark.  Lucius and Severus were both good at work games, but, more specifically, Lucius was a king of twisting people’s words and Severus was a pro at calling him out on it when that happened.  “I wouldn’t honestly be surprised if you orchestrated all of this just to try and set me on the back foot.”  He let his understated, low drawl show just how displeased he was at that.  However, his eyes kept straying to the Vascillai, and finally the words all but tumbled out of his mouth, “Is that truly a Vascillai?”

Smug beast that he was, Lucius knew that he’d won.  “I wouldn’t have paid so much for anything less – now, Severus, don’t give me that look.  I have the money and I can use it as I choose, even if my wife may think differently,” Lucius forestalled Severus’s attempt to be embarrassed at the money spent on him.  Severus had never been comfortable with gifts, despite the fact that his childhood friend was a rich Pureblood. 

At the mention of Lucius’s wife, Severus felt an unaccountable stab of jealousy in his gut, a new reaction for him.  He’d hated the woman for years, ever since Lucius had become more and more open about how little he and Narcissa got along.  Some arranged marriages grew into beautiful things, but others – like the Malfoy’s union – were doomed to failure.  Stuck with each other, Narcissa and Lucius just made each other miserable. 

Too caught up in the presence of the rare serpent to analyze the subtle shift in his reactions, Severus got up and strode past Lucius, who graciously moved aside just far enough so that Severus could stand next to him, inspecting the snake.  Unlike the cranky fire-snake he kept in his personal quarters, this Vascillai moved in slow, gentle movements.  Its head was short and blunt, a broad triangle with the telltale shape of a venomous pit-viper.  The body of the creature was far larger than any normal pit-viper, however, with scales that were rough and almost spiky – but what drew the eye was the color.  Painted with stripes and spots of black, it was a perfect, cerulean blue. 

Despite Lucius’s jokes about money, Severus knew that the elder Malfoy was a connoisseur of snakes – he knew more than Severus, for sure.  Snape knew everything there was to know about the properties of snakes, such as how the Vascillai was the closest one could get to a Basilisk without risking turning to stone, and the venom from them could be used in at least a score of delicate, rare potions.  It was a small matter that he had to depend on Lucius Malfoy for instructions about how to take care of the snakes themselves. 

He wondered if Lucius did that on purpose. 

The massive snake moved across the loam and rocks of its new home, eyes – blue like its body but a shade lighter, speckled with cobalt around the black slice of a pupil – seeming content with the environment.  “I figured that this was a fitting gift.  Besides having venom that you could harvest for potions, Vascillai are much better tempered than fire-snakes.”

“Regretting gifting me with Cineris?” Severus sneered good-naturedly, eyes never leaving the gorgeous reptile making itself at home. 

The aristocrat snorted delicately.  “Of course not.  I don’t regret anything.”

‘ _Except agreeing to marry Narcissa_ ,’ Severus thought, but that was filed into the do-not-speak-of-this category, so both he and the other man stood in silence, admiring the Malfoy’s latest gift of scales and fangs.

~^~

“Hmm,” Pomfrey said, using spells to gauge how much pain Draco was in when it became clear that the proud little boy was hiding it.  The Medi-witch had a good eye for such things, and therefore wasn’t suprised when her spells revealed just how much Draco must be biting his lip to maintain that prim façade of his.  “You’re under a bit of strain, Draco, or at least that’s what my spells are telling me.  I’m not sure how, but your magic is still a bit…finicky…so I’d suggest taking it easy.”

Draco had points of color starting on his cheeks, ashamed to remember the night before, when he’d rather moodily stormed away from Harry only to be reminded that he needed the boy’s proximity.  The visceral knowledge that he could _die_ if not next to the Boy Who Lived was terrifying and made him feel helpless.  He had no control over this whatsoever, and his continued health depended quite totally on another being – somehow, that was worse than having Crabbe and Goyle put a Magicseal on him somedays.  The good feelings of his morning (growing tentatively into something like camaraderie between himself and the wiry Gryffindor boy) shriveled and burned away to be replaced by useless, frustrated resentment.  Draco turned his eyes down, refusing to look at the brown-haired boy fidgeting on the chair next to him. 

“Here, take this – I’ve finally got a tonic that should see you through the whole day,” Madame Pomfrey said kindly, handing him a mug of something that smell green and herbal and _warm_ , despite the fact that it wasn’t actually heated.  It tasted vile, however, and the pale-haired boy grimaced openly and made a gagging noise at the taste that was perfectly justified. 

When Harry snickered, Draco finally shot him a look.  “If you think it’s so good, why don’t you try it, Potter?” he snapped.

“Now, boys,” the healer hushed, gentle as ever but with a hint of iron in her look that hushed them.  She took the empty mug back and continued to instruct Draco, “Seeing as your scars are still tender, you should wear lighter shirts for at least-”

“No,” Draco said, speaking up stubbornly and probably foolishly, but he couldn’t help it, “I want to wear my robes.  It doesn’t hurt-”  Quite a lie, but Slytherin’s were built for lying.  Sometimes they even believed themselves.  “-And just because I’m going to be trooping around with Gryffindors, doesn’t mean I have to look like one.”

He expected anger from Harry, but was once again surprised by how little the jab affected the Gryffindor’s pride.  The look those green eyes directed his way was definitely irritated, but mostly, Harry remained relaxed.  “You didn’t look like a Gryffindor,” he scoffed lightly, “You’d have to wear our colors for that, not just white.”

Truthfully, somewhere deep down inside where he didn’t want to admit it, Draco had been hoping to get a rise out of Potter.  Having Harry mad at him would justify his own irrational anger at Harry, who’d managed to become the key to Draco’s health in one unfortunate, sudden turn of events.  It was easier to hate someone when the feeling was mutual.  Now, the lack of temper nearly infuriated Draco for no particular reason than that he was frustrated.  So he glared at Harry, and Harry just gave him a level look back, one brow lowered a bit more than the other to wordlessly ask what Draco’s problem was.  Draco felt his magic rising, flushing him like a slightly uncomfortable heat, but he couldn’t get it to billow into that storm of earlier – for once, it was irritating that Harry’s mere presence tamped down on Draco’s power. 

Would he be a magical _mute_ from now until he was able to function without being around Harry-bloody-Potter?! 

“Of to breakfast now, you two!” Madame Pomfrey broke up the staring match before Draco could find out exactly how hard to had to push to make the Boy Who Lived become the Boy Who Finally Lost his Cool.  “And no wearing heavy robes until at least tomorrow, young man, or I’ll have you confined here.  Sadly, that will be a punishment for Mr. Potter, too.”  She shot him an apologetic look, but continued rather slyly, “But keep in mind, a fidgety Gryffindor would be your main company.”

“Hey!” Harry had the sense to be indignant, and Draco didn’t know whether to still be annoyed or whether to break down and smirk a little.  Madame Pomfrey had a point: Potter would be twitching and unable to sit still in minutes.  Giving the Medi-witch a tight smile that said ‘well played,’ Draco nodded slightly to acquiesce to her demands, then turned and left.  Harry caught up with him a few breaths later, like a puppy that hadn’t realized its owners had left yet. 

Then, of course, he pulled ahead, nearly running in his oversized robes.  “Come on, Malfoy, we’ll miss breakfast!”

As much as he might hate Potter, the boy had a point.  The draught from Pomfrey having wiped away completely the pain of his Magicseal mark, Draco raced after the bespectacled boy, creating two young forms racing down the hallways.  The paintings watched, amused but also secretly relieved and proud, because Draco no longer had to ask their help just to navigate the halls. 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things should start getting more exciting in the next chapter, so stay tuned! I'm about done (hopefully) with the more tedious build-up, or at least I've finally got some ideas for more action-filled chapters (which are more fun to write anyway). 
> 
> To see what Severus's snakes look like, the fire-snake and the Vascillai are here respectively:   
> http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mb6eijQR501r83k2io1_500.jpg 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Dueling Club is started up - and Dumbledore uses this as an opportunity to teach a few lessons... You can decide how appropriate they are. 
> 
> Finally some action! And a long chapter by my standards :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes a general misuse of the Dueling Club. It's totally out of the timeline, and totally by my rules instead of canon. Soooo....just deal with it, if at all possible! This is where the dueling fit, so this is where I put it :3 
> 
> Just for fair warning (if I haven't already said it), I do that a lot: include odd things for the sake of plot, regardless of commonsense or canon.

~^~

“Professor Quirrell is feeling under the weather today,” Flitwick’s voice floated over the room, setting up a surprised twittering amidst the students.  Everyone had been dreading DADA and its stuttering professor, and Draco had noticed a sort of wary tension slowly filling up Harry the closer they’d walked.  Oddly enough, Draco was beginning to notice such things.  It surprised him, because he’d never been all that good at reading body-language before, except the various posturing that preempted an attack from Crabbe and Goyle.  Now, however, the silver-haired boy was able to say with certainty that Harry Bloody Potter was tightening up like a wire string.  Draco didn’t know _how_ he knew, but whenever he looked inside of himself he found a little collection of words that said, ‘ _Yep, Potter’s as nervy as a hedgehog before Transfigurations Class_.’  There wasn’t even room to question it, as if the knowledge were a stomach ache in Draco’s gut. 

It wasn’t the same as when Harry was around Dumbledore – Harry was obviously distrustful of the man, and didn’t even try to hide it very much.  Draco could have guessed at that even without this odd new ‘sense’ of Harry’s temperaments.  No, this time, Draco was just getting the feeling that Harry was more uneasy, and it was a directionless sort of wariness that had Draco wanting to scratch at a point between his shoulder-blades a centimeter beneath his skin.  Of course, with his new scars so tender, he wasn’t about to do that. 

Now they had a reprieve…of sorts.  Professor Quirrell and Professor Flitwick were not the favorite professors, although at least Charms wasn’t the joke that Defense Against the Dark Arts was.  The Gryffindors and the Ravenclaws actually looked hesitantly curious, leaning forward in their desks to see how the minute Professor Flitwick would teach this class.  Harry had seemed generally disinterested in Charms, but was watching with interest now in his sharp green eyes. 

It seemed that Flitwick was intent on improving upon DADA, raising Draco’s estimation of the fellow by at least twofold instantly.  “Hopefully he’ll be back to teaching you all within the week, but until then, I’ll do my best to inform you on…well, dueling.”

That immediately turned the susurrus of whispers into an excited rain of chatter.  The excitement was instantly palpable, and Draco was feeling enthusiastic, too – after all, he didn’t have the Magicseal anymore, did he?  If Flitwick had suggested this only a week ago, Draco would have resigned himself to failing rather epicly, and trying to maintain his dignity in such an event would have been a monumental effort.  Now, however, he was without pain thanks to Madame Pomfrey, and magically able.  He felt a flicker of worry that his magic would be too strong instead of crippled, but Potter was there and unlikely to run off – after all, the Gryffindor looked just as eager as everyone else.  He was exchanging grins with Hermione and Ron, the former looking dubious at this turn of events and the latter looking down-right mischievous (and therefore disturbingly like his twin elder brothers). 

“I know that this is early in your career, but I promise you, things will be very safe – we’ll just be working on your elementary spells and charms.”  There was a groan across the class.  Flitwick remedied it: “And perhaps I might teach you a few more, behavior permitting.”  A few of the groans turned into whoops, although Draco had to wonder how quickly the Gryffindors would prove too reckless and generally foolish to be taught anything more dangerous than a general shielding spell.  He sighed and rolled his eyes, doing his Malfoy best to look unimpressed by all of this. 

Harry looked over, eyebrows lifting a bit behind his mop of hair.  “Not interested, Malfoy?” he asked in response to the face. 

Sitting back with his arms crossed over his narrow chest, the small, pale-haired boy just shrugged delicately.  “I bet you that a Gryffindor gets kicked out before the class is over, or gets someone sent to the hospital wing,” he declared without much fear of losing. 

“Oi!” Ron immediately barked back, leaning around Harry with an offended, threatening face.  Hermione, on the other hand, was wincing and looking away, a sign that she was secretly with Draco on this one.  Being a know-it-all, it was probably impossible to be totally unaware of the tendency of Gryffindors to get into trouble. 

Flitwick looked slightly nervy himself at the broad, Gryffindor grins being directed his way, and he unconsciously leaned towards the Ravenclaws.  Draco resisted the urge to laugh outright, but still chuffed out a laugh and shot Harry a knowing, superior look. 

“Aren’t you going to defend us, mate?” Ron demanded.  Harry looked back to him with a faint flush covering his cheekbones. 

“Well, I-” 

“Let’s begin then!  We’ll start by you all opening up these books to page forty-five,” Flitwick interrupted easily, and then was flicking his wand to send small, well-worn books bobbing through the air.  This impressed Draco more than anything, because he’d looked through the textbooks assigned by Quirrell, and had compared them to some of the books he’d glanced on the subject in the Malfoy library – the two didn’t even begin to compare.  These, however, looked to be far more interesting and informative, because he actually recognized the title.  Maybe they would learn something useful in this class…

Everyone jumped up and grabbed for the floating books, Draco being a noted exception as he stubbornly locked his arms in place and forced himself to wait for the book to be lowered to his desk.  He snapped his eyes over to Harry suddenly, however, as he felt a faint tug against his senses a second before Harry’s book dropped onto his desk a second before the others were lowered.  Draco narrowed his eyes, shooting Harry a suspicious look which Potter pointedly ignored in favor of opening his book.  Remembering the earlier conversation regarding Harry and wandless magic (which had seemed so absurd at the time), Draco tried to focus on the tugging feeling he’d just experienced, wondering if he’d been feeling Potter’s magic. 

Now that his own book was in front of him, however, and class was truly underway, he didn’t have time to consider it.

Still…the thought remained, even tucked away: Was Potter really able to perform magic without a wand? 

~^~

It was two days of just going over spells, which was very nearly as boring as listening to Quirrell stutter.  Only Harry seemed truly absorbed, his interest undimmed as he bent over the book (which truly was a much more applicable text than the one they’d been reading sporadically before).  Gone was the fidgety distraction that had consumed Potter during Charms.

Then again, these spells were somewhat more advanced than those being covered in Charms.  Draco wondered if that had something to do with it – he definitely wasn’t idiot enough to discount the idea. 

They practiced a few times during class, but always singularly.  The room was begin enough for Flitwick to summon targets and easily cycle students through shooting at them.  Draco had lost his bet the first day with a Gryffindor messing up, but the first time that the spells were put into practice, Neville backfired one and, predictably, sent a Ravenclaw to the infirmary.  It wasn’t anything serious, although even Flitwick was shocked at the shade of green she turned, considering the spell wasn’t meant to change anyone’s skin-tone.  By then, Draco had convinced Harry to accept his bet, and the Potter boy had to sigh and hand over his due with a chink of coins.  It was just pocket-change, but Draco took it with a smug, feline smirk as if it was a set of fine jewels, ignominiously gained but happily accepted.  Ron grumbled and had to hand over twice that and a Chocolate Frog. 

The fact that Draco was winning these bets was just the beginning of his triumph, however, as his knewly-freed magical core rejoiced at the freedom.  When he’d been under the thumb of Crabbe and Goyle, he’d studied the theory because that was all he could do – that meant that he now had an edge, because the knowledge was there.  He just had to apply magic to it.  Flitwick was immediately and obviously impressed at the pure precision that Draco brought to everything he did.  Even Hermione couldn’t quite match him, although the nit-picking girl came the closest.  Harry, for all of his interest, wasn’t a stellar student, although he was given a passing grade every day on his work – and seemed perfectly happy with that.  No amount of boasting on Draco’s part could upset him, although he got slightly irritated when Hermione tried to tell him to practice more.  “You’ve got the idea, Harry, you just need to hone all of the _detail_ -”

 “Really, ’Mione, I’m good.  My spells aren’t turning anyone green like Neville’s, and they’re coming out well enough.”

‘Well enough’ was apparently a curse-word in Hermione’s world, because she stared at Harry, aghast, until the class ended.  This marked an increase of her friendliness towards Draco, as she saw a fellow perfectionist.  As much as he liked being the best at something and having others notice, Draco wasn’t sure what he thought of being lumped together with the school bookworm – but he and Hermione had already earned the title of the best spell-casters in class.  Ron was incandescent with jealousy. 

And then the bad news came:  “Okay, class, this is the last time I’ll be in charge of you,” came Flitwick’s high, ever-careful tone, “Professor Quirrell should be back to lead you in your following lessons, and I do not know how he plans to continue the lesson plan.”

“Bet he goes back to stuttering so much we don’t know what he’s going on about,” Ron grumbled out of the side of his mouth to Harry, and Draco had to agree. 

Fortunately, Flitwick was proving himself full of surprises – and he seemed to like to deliver bad news only to send in a consolation prize hard on its heels.  “However, I have asked Dumbledore, and he has agreed that it would be very educational for you all to have a Dueling Club.”

And right about then, everyone started cheering so loudly that the poor little professor was drowned out.  Professor Flitwick had never before gotten a standing ovation for anything he’d said in front of a student body, but he just about did then.  Although such enthusiasm from Gryffindors always heralded trouble…

Well-meant trouble, but still. 

It took awhile, but eventually the details sifted their way down through the noisy excitement: the Dueling Club wasn’t usually something deemed safe for First Years, and therefore would be heavily monitored and policed.  No practice of dueling spells would be allowed outside of the Dueling Club, but spells learned in any class would be allowed within the boundaries of the Club.  Flitwick would be the main one in charge, but a second professor would always be present – everyone from Quirrell to McGonagall would be serving their time as the second professor watching over the Dueling Club.  The thought of Quirrell being there dampened the mood, but everyone honestly seemed more scared of the possibility of _Snape_ being present.  Draco smirked, having no fear of his godfather, except for in his most spectacular moods. 

Despite these sticking points, everyone rushed forward after class to sign the list to become part of the Dueling Club.  Draco even raced a bit, forgetting that he was a Malfoy for a minute as he and Harry elbowed each other to reach for the quill.  Again, there was that odd tugging sensation, and then the quill was suspiciously closer to Harry’s hand, allowing him to grab it first.  Draco glared daggers, recalling his earlier questions about this wandless magic business.  Very few people _ever_ mastered the art of wandless magic, and most of them still had to speak words to have any hope of control of success, yet Harry – a First Year – was apparently having his magical way with things both wandlessly and wordlessly.  The odds were so stacked against this possibility that Draco still didn’t want to believe it, despite the building evidence.  When Harry handed the quill over to Draco with a rather sheepish expression, the ‘caught red-handed’ look finally began to tip the scales in Draco’s brain. 

Still, he said nothing, merely snatching the quill away and signing with a flourish, pretending that he’d noticed nothing.  Knowledge was power, and knowledge was much better if you didn’t give it away, especially before you’d had time to truly analyze it.  Draco was good at spell-casting (the more complicated the better), but he was even better at teasing apart information when it suited him. 

~^~

Everyone was excited about the first meeting of the Dueling Club, and arrived abuzz with excitement at the doors to the previously-unused classroom.  The group was predominantly Gryffindors, but there were nearly as many Slytherins, and a lesser smattering of Hufflepuffs and curious Ravenclaws.  It would be interesting to see them work together – or, barring that, go at each other with spells in a socially acceptable setting.  There were, in fact, a few Slytherins that Draco was eager to wing a few spells at, even if the prospect made his insides buzz with nervousness as well.  At the thought of finally, possibly getting back a few of his tormenters (or at least those who had done nothing but watch as Crabbe and Goyle had abused him), Draco felt his magic kick and spark, even with Harry close by.  The Gryffindor boy froze, turning and shooting him a questioning look as if he noticed. 

“What are you looking at, Potter?” Draco grumbled, because he was pretty sure that was exactly the case: Harry had said he sensed magic, so he would certainly be able to notice Draco. 

Ron was there, too, and shot Draco a mildly miffed look, but spoke to Harry, “He just doesn’t get nice, does he?”

Before Draco would step forward and take a swing at the redheaded boy, the doors were thrown open and everyone began rushing in, effectively putting all grudges on hold.  Even Draco felt a wash of excitement push away everything else, and he found himself grinning and he started forward, Harry at his heels after nearly tripping over Ron.  The two were like puppies were oversized paws, honestly. 

The room was large and long, without the usual desks that the students were used to – instead, there was a raised platform for duels, and lots of room for students to pair off and practice.  Draco wondered at it along with everyone else, until he felt that itching between his shoulder-blades again, a centimeter beneath the skin – and then that itching turned to a sullen heat that had him turning around and narrowing his silver eyes at Harry.  He found the other boy without even having to look. 

Usually calm and laid back, his face open and friendly, Potter was now standing with a subtle tension in his limbs and a set, impenetrable look on his face – the kind that was cold but otherwise impossible to read.  Almost before he followed the direction of Harry’s eyes, Draco knew that he’d see Dumbledore.

The older man was standing quite benignly to one side, smiling pleasantly at everyone even as most students continued to miss his presence in favor of investigating their new surroundings.  Next to him was Flitwick, and behind him a ways – frowning like a thundercloud that had been unceremoniously dragged indoors – was Snape.  The students probably noticed _him_ before they noticed Dumbledore (every First Year with a sense of self-preservation had been trained to look out for the looming man and his legendary detentions), although it was impossible to say which caused them all to fall silent in one sudden second.  Everyone froze, staring with owl-like gazes at the three two professors and the cheery-eyed Headmaster now watching them. 

“Oh, don’t stop on my account!” Dumbledore said, as if realizing only right then his affect on the young students.  “Please, continue to explore.  It’s still early, after all, and we’ll have plenty of time for a duel or two after that.”

The promise of a Duel got everyone chirping again, wondering if they themselves would be dueling, or if one of the adults would be doing an exhibition – more than a few people expresses very, _very_ quiet opinions that they’d love to see Professor Snape knocked on his butt by a well-cast spell by the Headmaster.  Then again, everyone was split between believing that the Headmaster could wipe the floor with Severus, and the distinct possibility that he’d offer him a lemon drop instead.  Draco would have been in the latter skeptical group were it not for Harry’s persistent tension.  Most of the other kids were warily keeping at least one eye on Professor Snape, but Harry seemed like he could care less about the Dungeon Bat now that the Headmaster was in the room.

As if the bearded wizard were the greater threat.

“All right now, gather round,” Flitwick eventually got everyone organized, the three adults moving to the front of the room, where there was a raised dais just behind the dueling platform – no doubt to allow for the watching of fights and the potential halting of them.  As soon as all of the students were arrayed in front of them, looking up like so many curious birds, Dumbledore stepped forward, his polite eyes drifting across the group, landing on no one.  They looked pretty rheumy to Draco, but Harry still hadn’t relaxed.  Draco elbowed him.  No response – not even a peevish glare. 

“I’m very proud of your all for joining the Dueling Club, and will be interested to see your progress.  Before you begin progressing for the day,” Dumbledore lectured softly into the quiet that had descended respectfully upon the room, “I would like to talk to you.”  Unexpectedly, the man’s eyes grew a fraction…harder.  If Harry’s ambient tension hadn’t unwillingly coaxed Draco to follow suit, the pale-haired youngster likely wouldn’t have noticed – as it was, he’d been intently studying the old wizard to try and determine just what it was that set Harry off so much.  Now, that extra attention paid off as he noticed something stony enter the old man’s eyes, a subtle change that was unexpectedly unsettling.  The man’s voice had grown fractionally more serious, too, as he went on, “…About power.” 

The moment of solemnity was pushed aside swiftly, as Dumbledore continued his pleasant spiel:  “I’ve heard that some of you are doing quite well already at learning dueling spells, and for that, I commend you.  One thought I would like to give to you would be that power of its own accord is not useful, although the knowledge used to reach it _is_.”

Of course, this philosophical advice had the majority of the class scratching their heads, and Severus had a twitch going at the side of his eye that said he was trying incredibly hard not to roll his eyes.  He’d clasped his hands hard behind his back and standing still to avoid drawing attention to himself, and thus his increasing derision.  Thankfully, the students were merely perplexed, and Dumbledore soon distracted them with a demonstration.  “Miss Granger, would you please step up to the dueling platform?  And Miss Bulstrode?”  As both girls blinked in surprise and then acquiesced to the Headmaster’s request, Dumbledore explained patiently and slowly, “Now, from what I have heard, your fellow students here exemplify two fine qualities: an insatiable thirst for knowledge-”  He nodded towards Hermione, who blushed a shade that Draco hadn’t though possible and tried to stutter out a ‘thank you’ before just giving up and taking up a position on the left-most end of the platform.  The Headmaster nodded next at Bulstrode, “-And power, which I am here to talk to you about.  First, however, would you two mind dueling?”

He said this with such a pleasant smile that it hardly even fit the situation – because, as fun as dueling could be, it was still a _duel_.  An Bulstrode was already frowning stormily at her opponent while Hermione tried to keep her composure.  “Of course, Headmaster,” the Gryffindor girl answered for both of them a moment before the pause could become uncomfortable.  “But, Headmaster, we don’t know many-”

“It’ll be fine, my dear,” Dumbledore assured her, although Severus was eyeing him warily now.  Flitwick was all but lost in the background, although he appeared excited and interested.  “You see, you also do not need to know everything to be successful.”

The dig seemed somewhat unnecessary, although it was possible that it was unintentional – the Headmaster had said it so blithely.  Nonetheless, Hermione blushed again before nodding and turning back to Bulstrode.  The size difference between the girls was quite noticeable, as was the difference in temperament: Hermione looked nervous but professional.  Bulstrode…looked like she wanted to eat the Gryffindor girl alive.  Dumbledore briefly explained the rules – it was to be a simple duel, of course, since none of the students had dueled before.  Most other students would probably have to practice weeks before they could even dependably hit each other, but Dumbledore had picked two students who were actually quite advanced already.  He explained that they were only required to force their opponent from the circle circumscribed around their respective ends of the dueling platform, or to cause them to lose their wand.  It sounded easy enough, especially since Bulstrode and Hermione only knew a handful of spells between them (Hermione probably knew a score more purely from reading, but had no practice with them).

Safety measured were explained, as well as the need to listen to the professors should they be told to stand down.  Draco rather wondered if Bulstrode would listen, and placed his hand on his wand just in case.  True, Hermione wasn’t _really_ his friend, but he definitely liked her more than Bulstrode.

Basically, it was going to be a nice and friendly duel – the opportunity to jump right into dueling instead of spending more hours slogging through the theory.  The Gryffindors obviously approved, except for Hermione, who looked intensely nervous. 

“Severus, if you would?” Dumbledore looked back over his shoulder at the Potions Master.

For a moment, it looked like Snape would actually refuse.  But the necessities of being professional and obedient won out, and the man stepped forward in a swirl of dark robes.  His voice rang across the room where Dumbledore’s had lightly stroked the air: “Begin!”

Surprisingly, Hermione struck first, which for the first time caused Draco to take her seriously.  Up until now, she’d been under the category of ‘idiot Gryffindor’ no matter how smart she was at Charms – now, she proved that she had just enough Slytherin in her to realize the usefulness (nay, _necessity_ ) of holding nothing back.  A few Gryffindors gasps and a few Slytherins cheered as Hermione started the fight with a well-aimed disarming spell.  Most Gryffindors would have probably waited for their opponent to make the first move.

Most opponents would have ended up flat on their backs.

Bulstrode, caught off-guard, nearly lost her wand, and the only thing that saved her was a shielding spell so sloppy that Flitwick actually winced.  Still, Dumbledore hadn’t been lying when he’d called Bulstrode a powerful fighter: the strength behind her hastily-erected shield made up for the shoddy execution of it. 

“Come on, Hermione!” Ron was cheering, and he wasn’t the only one.  “Use that spell we learned yesterday!”  He looked at Harry with a sudden flash of bemusement.  “Or was that last week?”

Thankfully, Hermione wasn’t called the smartest witch of her age for nothing, and didn’t need Ron’s help.  Lips firming in a thin, determined line, she snapped out another spell (on that had, indeed, been taught yesterday).  This particular working of magic made most of the students gasp and Flitwick clap in delight, because no one had mastered it.

Except Hermione. 

Apparently, after having tried it just once and then reading about it for hours, Hermione was able to perform a spell that theoretically should have nullified the shield.  As it was, the flair of fluorescent orange magic only cracked a visible hole in Bulstrode’s defenses, proof again that Bulstrode was a powerhouse.  Next to Draco, Harry shivered, nearly taking a half-step back before firming his jaw and staying put.  Draco looked at him before immediately looking up, finding Dumbledore watching them with unreadable eyes.  Harry met the look without giving anything away, even though Draco was willing to bet that his sensitivity to magic was threatening to make this session uncomfortable. 

Bulstrode finally managed to shoot off an offensive spell, something so sloppy that no one even knew what it was – only that it looked like a gobbet of snot and probably was twice as nasty, knowing Bulstrode.  Ron and Harry both raised their voices in encouragement of their friend, even as Hermione temporarily froze, her eyes wide.

Then she twisted her wand and performed the exact same shielding spell that Bulstrode had.  Everyone held their breath, wondering what technique would win out: Hermione had just performed the shielding spell with utter perfection, controlled and refined where Bulstrode’s attempt had been anything but.  Nonetheless, whatever Bulstrode had sent flying Hermione’s way was all but humming with power, and Draco noticed Snape stepping forward, wand rising because no one had the faintest idea what the blob of magic would do if it got past Hermione’s shield and hit the girl.  Dumbledore’s hand reached out and stayed the Potions Master. 

Bulstrode’s magical monstrosity hit Hermione’s shield with a noise that Draco would happily live never hearing again, and even the most brash students stepped back.  Then, out of the sickly green light that had overtaken the whole dueling platform (obscuring the teachers beyond), there was a flash of pale-blue light and suddenly Bulstrode’s wand was winging upwards to the ceiling as if magnetized…which it very possibly was.  As if to make up for how soon he’d have to relinquish DADA back to Quirrell, Flitwick had gone over quite a few low-level spells, familiarizing his classes with them even if there was no time for in-depth study.  No one had a dependable count on just how many of those briefly-mentioned spells that Hermione had mastered, but it seemed they now had another for the list. 

“Go, Hermione!” Harry broke the silence with a broad, wild grin, lashing the air above his head with his fist.  As if a great war had been won, the other Gryffindors followed suit in cheering as Snape and Flitwick used quick spells to clear the magical detritus from the air.  Bulstrode was breathing heavily, looking as though she still couldn’t believe that she’d lost.  The professor kindly called the wand down from the ceiling and handed it to her. 

“In the future, Miss Bulstrode, merely remember that an enemy is not defeated until they admit it.  Until they, you must always be prepared for them to refuse to admit defeat,” he said in a surprisingly helpful tone.  Bulstrode actually tried to smile a bit, and nodded to show that she’d take the advice to heart.  Meanwhile, Flitwick gave Gryffindor ten points for the beautiful use of the Mini-Magnet Charm.  Goofy names aside, it was clearly quite useful if one knew how to direct it correctly. 

Hermione made to follow Bulstrode back down to floor-level when Dumbledore stopped her with a raised hand an a coaxing smile.  “If you are quite all right, Miss Granger, I would have you go against another person.  A classmate, perhaps?”

“Um…yes, of course, Headmaster,” the girl stumbled verbally.  She looked down at the Gryffindors, her nervousness clear in her eyes as she met Ron and then Harry’s gaze.  The two boys helpfully gave her the thumbs-up, right until Dumbledore spoke again.

“Harry, my boy, how about you come up?”

The smile fell away again, and Draco growled in irritation as that burning/itching a centimeter beneath the skin of his back started up again.  He was going to have to have a long talk with _someone_ about what exactly this Resonant business entailed, because it was getting bloody annoying.  He still had an annoyed face on as Harry walked up to take Bulstrode’s place on the platform. 

“Now that we’ve seen a wonderful example of how a knowledge of spells – even those we may never think we’ll use – can secure victory, lets try this again.  Harry, you’re the only one who uses more magical power in a spell than Miss Bulstrode, did you know that?”

 _No one_ had known that, and honestly, Draco wasn’t even sure how _Dumbledore_ had known that, although Professor Flitwick’s pleased nods indicated that the minute Charms teacher had been the one to ascertain this.  He was going to have to start watching Flitwick a lot more closely…the fellow was too full of surprises for Draco’s Slytherin nature to sit quietly with.  Harry, eyes a bit wide, answered with transparent truthfulness, “No, Headmaster!”

Dumbledore smiled brightly and clapped his hands.  “Delightful, delightful, Harry!  Well, we’ll just have a friendly match between yourself and Miss Granger then.  Are you quite all right with this, Miss Granger?”

At first, Hermione had seemed anxious, but maybe she’d realized that dueling Harry was far less dangerous than dealing Bulstrode – especially when Harry gave her his best encouraging smile, and Ron continued to hold his thumbs in the air.  “Yes, Headmaster.  Same rules?”

“Yes, of course.  Move your opponent from their appointed positions or remove their wand from their possession.  But I want you to keep that last duel in mind,” Dumbledore finished the last with a lingering note that was hard to define, although he directed it mostly at Harry, whose brow beetled beneath his glasses.  Dumbledore finished as he stepped back to his position near Snape and Flitwick, “I expect you to fight fairly but also sincerely – I know that you two are friends, but this is, after all, a friendly fight.  No harm in doing your best.  Now go!”

This time, Hermione did hesitate, and Harry got off the first shot.  It as a spell that Draco recognized as largely harmless, however: a zipping firecracker of red that looked a lot like a Snitch crossed with one of the twins’ milder fireworks.  When Hermione dodged instead of magically deflecting, her eyes huge, Harry cracked up a bit.  His laughter did a wonderful job of relaxing Hermione, and she smirked back, a challenging light entering her eyes as she regained her dueling posture.

Then things _really_ heated up. 

It became clear that Harry, like Bulstrode, didn’t have the repertoire of spells that Hermione did – not by a long-shot.  And while Harry had decidedly more finesse than the Slytherin girl, he still looked sloppy in comparison to the Granger girl.  Truly, to Hermione, spell-work was an art-form. 

But Harry was still somehow winning.

After the two of them had relaxed into the idea of competing against each other, both Hermione and Harry and shot spells at one another with little to no hesitation.  True, they seemed to be totally avoiding the more damaging spells, but even with that unspoken stipulation, it was a pretty cutthroat deal.  Draco was impressed.  Hermione’s face was stubbornly set as she shot off spell after spell at Harry, and then Harry all but made a game out of taking each spell out of the air.  The snaps and cracks of spells being nullified – like landmines being detonated – filled the long strip of the dueling platform between them, and Flitwick was in a state of ecstasy over the show.  Severus had one eyebrow raised and was looking with rapid flicks of his dark eyes between the two Gryffindor students, proof that he was both surprised and grudgingly impressed.  Dumbledore…

It was like a curse now: Draco had picked up some of Harry’s inexplicable suspiciousness, and was now watching extra-closely.  Because of that, he noticed that the omnipresent twinkle in the old man’s eyes was only skin-deep, a skin of pleasantness over a raptor-like watchfulness that belied the man’s great age and apparent doughtiness.  He was scrutinizing the fight subtly, and Draco felt a flicker of unease – for Harry.  He’d deny it, of course, but his magic roiled uneasily.

And at the same time, Harry stumbled, blinking as if he’d heard his name called or something. 

In that moment, Hermione got creative – something she wasn’t really known for.  She was a ‘by-the-book’ person, not an ‘off-the-cuff-improvisation’ person, but she nonetheless snapped out, “ _Wingardium Leviosa_!” with no obvious hesitation.  Everyone gasped, because they hadn’t thought of that spell as useful on anything other than quills, but suddenly Harry helped as his feet began to leave the floor.  Hermione was shaking with the strain, but apparently Harry and Bulstrode weren’t the only ones with some power beneath their skin.

Just a second before Harry’s feet completely left the platform – which would likely result in his elimination, although the rules were somewhat shady in the area of floating duelists – Draco felt a _snap_ at his core, not unlike being near enough to catch the backlash of a rubber-band when someone plucked at it.  His own magic remained dormant and unaffected, but the sensation nonetheless caught his attention, and his gaze snapped to Potter a second before the levitating spell seemed to lose effectiveness.  To everyone else, it looked as though Hermione lost control of it under the strain, as she gasped and dropped her wand. 

To Draco, however, the timing was a millisecond off, and Harry landed a bit too gracefully to have been unexpectedly dropped.  A heartbeat later and the brown-haired boy had snapped his wand forward: “ _Expelliarmus_!”  The spell was said so fast and so naturally – like a reflex more than a conscious decision – that the opposing young witch had no time to defend herself.  Her wand went spinning across the room to be caught by a startled by helpful Hufflepuff. 

Polite claps followed this, because students were still a bit flabbergasted by it all.  Besides, since it had been Gryffindor versus Gryffindor, no one was entirely sure who they had been meant to cheer for from the start.  Harry, looking flushed and somewhat embarrassed, walked forward to shake Hermione’s hand and pull her up after she leaned down to take back the wand the Hufflepuff girl was holding up to her.  “Sorry about that, ’Mione,” he said with an apologetic blush.  She immediately shook her head.

“Don’t say sorry for that, Harry!  It was a wonderful duel, and you won fair and square.  Besides, I was getting a bit sick of being up here anyway!” she admitted, just loudly enough that Harry and those nearest the platform (mainly Ron and Draco, standing close) heard.  They all shared a chuckle.

Then Dumbledore’s voice rang out one more time, louder than before, “One more duel.  Then, we will call it a day.  A wonderful beginning to a group that I think will go far.  Miss Granger, I’m sorry to say, but you have been defeated.  Would you please descend from the platform?”

The girl curtsied as prettily as one could in a robe, accepting the loss gracefully and even with a smile, “Yes, Headmaster.”

Harry didn’t try to follow, instead holding his ground on the dueling platform.  He was radiating that faint aura of being wary again, and by now, there was no question that Draco was actually _sensing_ that in the form of discomfort.  He rolled his shoulders (beneath robes now, finally, instead of just a light dress-shirt) in a fidgeting motion that he grouchily thought more befitting of Potter.  Malfoys did _not_ fidget. 

“Malfoy, could you come up here, please?”

Malfoys also did not show surprise if they could help it, but as everyone felt silence, Draco was hard-pressed not to look shocked.  Harry was blinking, too, wide-eyed, and it was clear as the two exchanged looks that neither was entirely sure how this was going to go. 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I don't necessarily like Dumbledore XP But at least some action is happening! And I didn't just bash Hermione like I first thought I would! 
> 
> Sorry for the cliffhanger...it happens to me...but mostly it happens to you. *I've got no excuse for my cliffhanger behavior*


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Harry duel...and the day goes rather downhill from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You learn a bit more about where Dumbledore is coming from in this one - although I doubt you'll like him anymore for it...
> 
> Oh, and if you're wondering why you're getting a chapter this week, it's because I updated my baby-Q fic early, so I had time to jump back to this one! :D

~^~

Stiff-backed and probably looking more nervous than proud, Draco stepped up and onto the dueling platform where Harry was still looking at him with a rather gobsmacked expression.  It took only one exchanged glance for both of them to send and receive the same message from one another: They hadn’t the faintest idea how this was going to go, or if it was a remotely good idea.  Harry, regaining himself a bit, shot a look Dumbledore’s way which combined tension and a bit of worry, brows lowering behind his glasses as he got an almost protective or defensive look on his face.  Not a lot of people argued with the Headmaster, even on a nonverbal level, but it was clear from Harry’s look that he didn’t like this idea.  After all, Draco’s magical upheaval was still a recent thing, even if he’d proven that he could perform spells normally against inanimate targets. 

Dumbledore didn’t turn his head to meet Potter’s gaze, but said in his gentle, calming tone, “Now, there’s no need for worry.  Everyone knows and remembers, of course, that young Draco Malfoy has magic that has matured prematurely.”  As he said it and indicated Draco with a long, pale hand, it felt as if he were pointing out some embarrassing personal disorder, immediately getting Draco’s ears to flush with acute embarrassment.  He turned his head away from everyone, glowering to hide the fact that he felt the still of humiliation at his core.  He didn’t notice Harry looking at him, wincing in sympathy, before Dumbledore went on, “However, since then, Draco has recovered and proven himself to be a very able and capable student, to quote our prestigious Professor Flitwick.”  The minute professor beamed and shot Draco an encouraging look, even if Draco did not completely believe himself to be fully ‘recovered’ as Dumbledore seemed to believe.  After all, the moment he’d removed himself from Potter’s company, he’d nearly lost control. 

“So, students, consider this a case of power versus power,” Dumbledore was finishing sagely as he continued to lay out next exhibition of the day, “Our very own Harry Potter, whose exploits I need not clarify on-.”

A few girls amongst the crowd tittered and batted their lashes as if in the presence of a celebrity, but Draco noticed that Harry looked more sick to his stomach than proud of anything.  Even Harry’s omnipresent wariness of Dumbledore had faded in favor of simply looking ill-at-ease under the pressure of his so-called ‘exploits’ and the attention they brought him.  Draco had always thought that approbations like that would be great, but apparently Harry looked like he had a different opinion on the matter. 

 “-And Draco Malfoy, who is excelling wonderfully in spellcasting and who comes from a powerful line of wizards.  Now, let us watch, shall we?  If you two are ready?”

Harry still looked intensely anxious.  As relaxed as he’d been while fighting Hermione under everyone’s watching eye, he now looked like a fox who sensed a hound coming but didn’t know entirely where it was coming from – and Draco could _feel_ that unease like pinprick-sparks touching his spine.  Either he was going crazy or this was some one-sided reaction to his magic being compatible with Harry’s, because Draco couldn’t explain the alien sensations, and Harry didn’t appear to be sharing them.  Rolling his shoulders and deciding that blowing off a little steam at Potter might feel nice, Draco nodded briefly.  Harry acquiesced more slowly, but was also turning to face the small Malfoy boy, wand at the ready.  His stance had always looked rather awkward and unpolished to Draco’s eyes, while Draco himself coiled into a neat crouch, early lessons from his father showing through. 

This whole time, pushed into the background as everyone focused on the Headmaster and the two well-known students on the dueling platform, Severus had been about to explode.  Hermione was possibly the only one who noticed, and only because she knew that Harry hated it when everyone was reminded that he was ‘The Boy Who Lived’ and not just plain-old, friendly Harry Potter.  In sympathy, Hermione had turned away from his embarrassment, only to find herself looking at Snape in the worst state of agitation she had ever seen.  The fluffy-haired young witch just stared at him as the man’s eyes darkened so much that they should have started smoking out the black, a muscle twitching rapidly along one cheek even as muscles that Hermione honestly hadn’t thought he had bunched beneath the shoulders of his robes.

But before anything could come of that, Dumbledore started the duel, voice rising: “Begin!”  And then he stepped back, and unreadable look on his aged face.  Hermione had just enough time to notice that Severus was all but steaming before she, like everyone else, was magnetized to the fight.

Draco, Hermione knew already just from watching him practice in class, was wickedly fast.  He may not have been able to perform spells quite as complicated as she could, but he made up for that by being just about the fastest spell-caster in class – possibly in all of the classes.  She didn’t know about power, however…but the reminder of Draco’s ‘condition’ worried her.  Sidling closer to Ron, Hermione watched as Draco got the first shot off, just as she’d expected.

It was a good spell, a flair of maroon light that was largely harmless (Flitwick was smart enough not to have taught the students anything deadly this early in their wizarding career) but would nonetheless put a student twice Harry’s size flat on their back.  It sizzled through the air like a baby phoenix, the size of a large fist and trailing sparks of ochre-orange light.  It came so fast that Harry was caught with his metaphorical pants down, and everyone from Slytherin was catcalling as they expected a swift end to this fight. 

Right up until the spell sizzled out.

From the very start, Draco had had no qualms about using the element of surprise to launch a spell at Harry right from the start – he was a Slytherin, after all.  Besides that, he could feel all of the frustration and embarrassment of being tied to Potter burning in his stomach, and this was the first opportunity he’d had for a real outlet.  It was also likely the only outlet he was going to get, unless he felt like trying his hand at barehanded brawling next time his frustration at Potter boiled over.  It felt good to feel the magic flying from his core, splitting the air towards his opponent.  The initial fear he’d felt at using his fully-awakened magic on another person disappeared instantly as his powers remained stable – Harry was still close enough that he was preventing any sort of blowout. 

But then the spell lost power like a flaming brand being lowered deeper and deeper into water, fading the closer it got to Harry until there was a spark…and then nothing.  Draco’s elation puttered out likewise, replaced by dismay.  He tried to think of what he’d done wrong.

For a second, Harry was dumbfounded, too, having expected to be send sliding off the back of the dueling platform before he could get a shot in edgewise.  But while Draco was the faster of the two, Harry recovered like a cat.  Shaking off the surprise like water, he firmed his jaw and shot back, sending back exactly the same spell; it didn’t sound quite as nice, but it was still well-executed, and another little fireball tore up the distance between the combatants. 

Draco proved his speed yet again, even if his mind was still reeling from his unexpected failure earlier.  Despite that, he remembered a shielding spell in time to throw one up in front of himself with a bark of words and a slash of his wand.  Harry spell hit it – and was deflected.  What Draco didn’t notice was that Harry’s spell had weakened significantly across distance as well, so the shield had hardly been necessary.  All the pale-haired boy knew was that when he shot two more offensive spells in rapid succession, all of them faltered and died before even touching Harry, one actually going so far as to fly off-course before cutting out like a blown candle.  Draco was so confused that he didn’t even notice the next spell Harry shot at him, not until it fizzled and died two feet in front of him.  Then, all he could do was stare.

Both boys were breathing quickly, even though they hadn’t been dueling that long.  But it was clear that they just didn’t have any fight left in them, and the whole room was silent as a mass grave, eyes wide and shocked.  Harry, usually so calm and untroubled, looked as if he’d been slapped, hard, and just kept staring at where not one, but _both_ of his offensive spells had died prematurely, still recalling the roiling sensation in his core when the event had occurred.  The sensation was alien…wrong…and he didn’t know what to do. 

Across from him, Draco still had his wand raised, but his eyes looked dead, the silver of them almost tarnished-looking as he likewise replayed his sudden, repetitive failures.  No matter how he wracked his brain, he couldn’t think what he’d done wrong, although obviously he’d done _something_ disastrously incorrect. 

It was either that or all of his pride in his magic was a lie, and he truly had no skills at all. 

That idea knocked the wind out of him, he Draco didn’t care that everyone was staring, because it felt like he couldn’t breathe.  If he hadn’t done anything wrong in the execution of the spells, then it meant that his magic was crippled – a maimed leg unwilling and unable to support his wizarding weight. 

And now everyone knew.  His only consolation was that Potter seemed to have been likewise disillusioned: the famous Boy Who Lived had just shown that perhaps he wasn’t as dependably powerful as everyone thought.  The room around them was still hushed as if someone had died, but a few whispers were starting up, the whispers of questions and doubt that had been unimaginable before.  Draco just lowered his head and his wand and closed his eyes, letting the soft, cutting noises wash over him, telling himself that he wasn’t going to cry in front of everyone.

“And so, we see, class,” Dumbledore said gravely and in a voice that carried easily despite being soft, “power on it’s own means nothing.  It can succeed from time to time, as Harry defeated Miss Granger, but we must learn not to rely on it, nor to worship it.”  The old man held a note of sympathy in his voice, but Draco heard only pity, and felt anger ignite on the kerosene of his loss, painting a ferocious look of hatred upon his narrow face as he swung his head up to glare at the Headmaster.  Those watching stared wide-eyed at his boldness, but Draco didn’t care, eyes snapping with anger even as Dumbledore patently ignored him.  Draco didn’t notice that his magic – far from acting crippled – began to snap and growl beneath his skin, until Harry hissed his name from across the platform.  It broke his temper for a split-second, and in that second, Dumbledore raised his voice and called abruptly, “That is all for today.  Your are dismissed, until the next meeting.”

Almost instantly, Professor Snape stepped forward, his voice rolling out sharply as if the words had been bunched up behind his teeth for ages, clawing for escape, “Potter!  Draco!”  While Dumbledore had an obvious habit of saying Harry’s first name and everyone else’s last name, Snape’s default reserved first names for the blonde-haired Slytherin boy.  “Go to my office.  Directly.  I-”

“If I could speak with you first, Severus?” interrupted Dumbledore quite calmly.  The effort of stopping his furious rant physically jarred Severus, as he sucked in a breath and turned his body with a jerk, unsure for a moment whether he was going to glare at Dumbledore, too, just as Draco had in a moment of childish wrath.  Being a grown man (presumably in control of his faculties and moods), Severus managed to reign in his emotions so that all the startled students saw was a glower perhaps more stormy than usual on his face. 

“Of course, Headmaster,” he just managed to get the words out.  But then, with a defiant glint that only the Headmaster caught, Severus nonetheless turned back to Draco and Harry to add, “I expect to find you two sitting patiently in my office when I get there.  Don’t.  Dawdle.”  At least the last command, said in a rather lethal drawl, was familiar, and got the two boys moving.  Moving automatically, they got down from the dueling platform, following the rest of the students as they filed out. 

No one had expected to be this subdued after their first meeting of the Dueling Club.

~^~

Severus held his piece until they entered Dumbledore’s offices and the door closed behind them.  Then he exploded. 

“You had not right to do that two them.  Their magics are compatible, and after this long with one balancing the other, their spells are practically nullified.”  Most all students would claim that they had seen Snape angry more often than not, but seeing him now, eyes snapping and entire posture tense, they would have swiftly recalculated – **now** Snape was angry.  Enraged, even.  “Before having them duel, you should have at least paused to explain that their spells wouldn’t work on each other-!” 

Just as Snape’s voice truly began to rise, Dumbledore whirled around to face him, thundering, “SEVERUS!” 

The power – almost magic – infused in that voice hit the Potions Master like a wave, and he stumbled back a pace, actually afraid.  Logically, he knew that this was another low-blow, as Dumbledore used his innate magic to cow the arguing professor.  However, unfair or not, there was no denying that Dumbledore had enough fearsome power to squash Snape if he wanted to.  Severus felt instantly silent, trying to hide that he was shaking.  As the Headmaster tamped down on his power again – like closing a lid on a kiln – Snaped watched him, as wary and distrustful as a wolf shown the muzzle of a gun one too many times. 

The balance of power between the two men was a delicate thing.  Snape accepted Dumbledore’s commands as a necessary means to an end, as well as a form of punishment for his earlier sins under the shadow of the Dark Lord.  When Snape had first turned spy, he’d recognized what a powerful force for good Dumbledore was – emphasis on _power_.  Not long after, Severus had realized that Albus also possessed a vast amount of cunning behind that power.  Albus Dumbledore was a fearsome ally to have, but he was also a dangerous enemy.  On days like today, Severus was reminded of that, as he was smartly put in his place. 

Calmer now but still showing no signs of the usual smile he usually walked around with, Dumbledore addressed the other wizard, “Severus, I understand your ire.”

‘ _Do you_?’ Snape wanted to sneer back, but was too smart to ask for death like that.  There were days when Albus and the Black Lord were eerily the same, and Severus had learned to survive around the more lethal of the two.  Holding his tongue was a wise trick that he’d learned to use around both. 

Apparently some of the belligerence had shown in Severus’s eyes, unfortunately, because the Headmaster’s face grew stony.  However, his words were still civil, if sharp.  “Now you should take a moment to understand _me_ , Severus.  You of all people should knew that the story you see on the surface is very rarely all there is to the tale.”

Severus winced and had to admit to the wisdom in the point, and settled down a bit, crossing his hands behind his back in something more like his usual pose.  He still probably looked confrontational, but then again, he always did.  Thankfully, today was one of the days where Albus decided to get right to the point.

“It was necessary to have those two boys duel, and for exactly the reasons I stated: to show that power alone can fail.  I realize that it was cruel, but it was necessary.”

The necessity of cruelty was something that Severus understood and accepted, but he still didn’t feel like swallowing the Headmaster’s logic.  “And is it necessary for them to remain in the dark about why their magics failed spectacularly, or will you allow me to explain it to them before they become irrevocably stuck in the doldrums?” Severus deadpanned unrepentantly.

“There’s no need to be sharp, Severus,” Albus chided patiently, as if Severus were the student, “I will, of course, allow you to explain the situation to them, especially considering how much you know personally about the matter of compatible magics.  I will leave that in your capable hands.  However, as to _why_ I had them duel in front of everybody, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to keep that a secret.”

“Considering that I am not entirely sure I see why either, I don’t believe I could tell them if I wanted to,” was the Potion Master’s droll but completely sincere reply. 

“Because the young need to know that the allure of power isn’t all that it’s painted to be.  There can always be another Dark Lord.”

The calm, steady words were dark and somber, and stuck a cord of fear that vibrated up through Severus’s chest.  It was almost like hearing a prophet speak, saying words that were somehow more than simple sound and air but instead rang with a frightful truth.  Without meaning to, Severus took a half-step back.  If these words were the truth, he’d do anything he could to fight them. 

“And right now, Severus,” Albus said, sitting down at his desk slowly and solemnly, “the rising star is our own Harry Potter.”

Severus had been going on the defensive, his mind wrapping itself around the possible threat of another Dark Lord, but the last sentence threw him for such a loop that he just stared for a moment like a loon.  Suddenly, he wondered quite seriously if this was just some massive prank that the Headmaster was playing on him.  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he finally stated with surety in his low voice. 

The headmaster merely cocked on bushy eyebrow.  “I assure you, Severus, I am not.  He is both powerful and popular, although his duel with Draco might have balanced that a bit.”

Severus wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to burst out laughing at the ludicrousness or this or not.  “He’s a Gryffindor through and through, Albus,” the snorted derisively, “You can’t seriously be suggesting that you’re afraid of him becoming a Dark Lord in the absence of You-Know-Who.” 

“Severus, no one expected Tom Riddle, either,” continued the senior wizard, and silence reigned for a time.  Clearly, Severus was still incredulous, but Albus’s face was set and stern, and the older man was rarely wrong – he also, Severus knew, played a long game.  Merlin would rise again before a pawn like Severus would figure out all of the little paths Albus Dumbledore was tending. 

Forced to take the old man seriously if only because of his track-record for being right, Severus deflated a bit with a sigh.  “Should I be prepared to tolerate any more attempts at lowering Potter in the eyes of his fellows?  I ask this because he’s rather unavoidably attached to my godson, who was also humiliated without need.”  By that, Severus deftly insinuated that there was also no need to humiliate Harry, but he wasn’t ready to admit yet that he – perhaps – didn’t hate James Potter’s son as much as he originally had. 

“No, Severus, I believe I’ve done enough.”  Looking away, the Headmaster looked abruptly centuries older and more tired as he admitted with a sigh, “More than enough.  I just pray that my paranoia comes to nothing.  I wish I could be like you, Severus, and believe that a boy as powerful as Harry could never become a Dark Lord.”

Severus snorted to hide the sliver of unease he felt at the old man’s worries.  “I don’t even believe he’s powerful,” he deflected the prophetic-sounding words.  “I believe he’s reckless and lucky, but the Granger girl is more likely to be Dark Lord material than he is.”

Sadly, this didn’t get the Headmaster to laugh.  His eyes were fixed across the room on Falks, as if silently communing with the Phoenix, or perhaps just looking right through the fiery bird.  He shook himself after a moment, and the light, pleasant old Headmaster was back, blinking and smiling faintly as if just noticing Severus there.  “Oh, Severus, you can go now!  Please, go talk to those boys.  If nothing else, it’s high time that they realize that they can’t duel one another, at least not easily.”

This was one of the more eerie conversations that Severus had ever had with the Headmaster, and he was most eager to leave.  He couldn’t resist the bitter afterthought, however, as he stopped halfway to the door, “I assume you still don’t wish me to mention the Dark Lord part of this conversation?”

“That would be best, yes,” came the reply along with the twinkling smile before the door revolved shut between them.

~^~

Harry and Draco had, as ordered, trooped off immediately down to the Dungeons and the Snape’s office.  It had looked like Hermione wanted to say something to them, her eyes both distressed and sympathetic, but truthfully, neither Harry nor Draco wanted to talk to anybody right now.  The rest of the students avoided them as if they’d been doused in a repelling-potion, their glances ranging from smugly superior to rather frightened.  It wasn’t everyday that a wizard their age saw an idol knocked off a pedestal. 

By the time they were in the secluded, grim quiet of Professor Snape’s office, Harry still looked rather stunned, but Draco was angry.  His emotions were knotted up inside of him, and instead of taking a seat or standing nervously just inside the door like Harry, he began to pace.   

For all the trouble that he got into in Potion’s classes, Harry wasn’t well-acquainted with the interior of Snape’s offices – especially since the new addition of the giant snake-tank at the back of the room.  He stared at it a moment, finally distracted from the inexplicable failure of the duel by the impressive sight.  The snake eyed him back before hissing softly and turning to Draco, whose obvious anxiety was infectious. 

“Draco, maybe you should just sit down-” Harry tried suggesting as he saw the snake grow more active.  He knew that the snake wasn’t exactly angry yet…but he knew enough to see that Draco’s pacing wasn’t making it happier. 

“Sit down?  **Sit down**?!” Draco repeated with growing ire, although he at least stopped stalking back and forth as he spun to face Harry.  Both eyebrows shooting up into his tangled mess of brown hair, the Gryffindor boy found himself met with a pair of angry silver eyes.  “Why in the _world_ would I just sit down after what happened?!  Were you even **there**?!” Draco’s voice rose. 

Some annoyance began to rise of its own accord on Harry’s face, his brows lowering into a frown that made his scar stand out more palely against his forehead.  “Of course I was _there_ , Malfoy.  I’m just saying that wearing a hole in the rug isn’t helping.”

“That’s fine for you to say,” Draco sniped, turning away.  He paced to Severus’s desk to poke moodily at a jar of ink, an act that anyone else would have been far too horrified to commit.  Since Severus was his godfather, however, Draco didn’t give it a second thought even as Harry’s eyes bugged out of his head a little.  Draco’s eyes were fisted on the movements of his own hand as he considered smashing the ink all over the place.  That would probably be pushing it a little bit too far, however, even within the godfather/godson boundaries.  “You can be all light and carefree, but that’s because your magic works, remember?  Mine-”  His words caught, and the sign of weakness was too much to bear, coaxing the small blond boy to turn to anger again as he pushed onwards furiously, “Mine went out like a bloody light, so I think I’m more than entitled to pace.”

“Come on, Draco,” Harry sighed, “Mine went out, too, and you did better than me in practice, remember?  You almost beat Hermione’s scores in the last class with Flitwick.” 

If that was meant to cheer Draco up, it most definitely failed, as Draco whirled around again, this time with his magic crackling dangerously.  Harry’s eyes narrowed, sensing the danger.  He might not have been as well-read or as bright as Hermione, but being a Sensitive and Draco’s Resonant meant that he instantly knew that – despite Harry’s calming influence – Draco’s magic was rising dangerously.  Harry’s presence was like a damn to hold a river in, but Draco was threatening to overflow anyway as his frustration and anger fed magic that was already far more powerful than it was supposed to be for a boy his age. 

“And what good is that, Potter?” Draco spat, not even realizing that he was clutching his wand tightly enough to almost break it.  It wasn’t the presence of the wand that was making Harry’s heart-rate speed up, however – it was that little flickers of magical light were igniting in the air around Draco without the help of his wand.  Unlike Harry, most people needed to actually say a spell to unleash magic…unless they were like Draco, with too much magic and too little natural control as yet.  “I’m all bark and no bite!  As quaint as that sounds, I _hate it_!”  He squeezed his eyes shut and his entire body tensed with the utter frustration and helplessness he was feeling, yet again, as he had when Crabbe and Goyle had locked him under the power of the Magicseal.

His scars burned and his magic went off with a crash. 

Unlike his initial magical explosion, this was a relatively small flare of power: the air around him looked like some flammable gas that had suddenly been lit by a match, turning to silver flames in a second.  Papers flew off Severus’s desk as if hit by a wind and the shelves rattled at the percussive blast, but nothing ignited – and the magic, as on the dueling platform, diffused the closer it got to the Gryffindor boy.  Harry, startled and feeling his instincts take hold, whipped out a hand and felt his own magic respond anyway.  His wand was still his pocket, but the spell formed anyway, power shaping itself in his mind before winging into the room.  It would have probably given Draco quite a knock…had it even hit him. 

Instead, it veered off as if the space Draco occupied were off-limits, and the wave of power careened into the glass tank set in the back wall instead.  Both boys flinched at the sound of shattering glass, but it was awhile before Draco’s tumultuous magic calmed enough that the air quieted and cleared a bit.  Draco’s flash of feral magic had knocked some potion off a nearby shelf that had filled the air with smoke that smelled like soap and cinnamon, and the two boys could hardly see each other through it. 

Trying to wave the fumes away, Draco considered apologizing now that his magic had returned to whatever nest Harry’s magic lulled it into.  As proud as Draco was, he had enough sense to realize that what he’d just done – while accidental – wasn’t precisely polite.  First, however, he had to find the Gryffindor boy in the half-destroyed room. 

“Potter-!” he started to call, but then was arrested by a heavy sound behind him.  Opposite the direction where he knew Harry to be, Draco now heard the weight noise of something large slipping onto the floor, but it was the grating, serpentine hiss that made him freeze. 

The massive snake that had been in the tank was now loose in the room, and by the sounds of it, the creature already close enough to Draco to touch. 

 ~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked the new twist! Sorry for the cliffhanger - I'm really, really excited to write the next chapter, obviously! If you're really lucky, I'll get it done faster than the usual two-week schedule. ;) 
> 
> The next chapter should probably include some cuddles for Draco, because he needs them. Unless the snake eats him. Cuddlez are hard to get in the belly of a snake...


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Harry tangled with a snake, and things get interesting when Snape shows up in the middle of it. Secrets are revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was fun writing this chapter!! Finally - the answer to the cliffhanger of last chapter! And the paintings reappear, briefly ;)

 ~^~

Things started bad and got worse, as Draco backed up and tripped one of the utensils his magic had knocked off Snape’s desk.  He yelped as he crashed to the floor on his back, scrambling into a sitting position in time to see a massive, blue-and-black head of scales hover into view.  The soap-and-cinnamon smog filling the room wreathed away from the wedge-shaped head, making it look as if the serpent lacked a body – but it was terrifying enough all on its own.  The piercing quality of those cobalt eyes froze Draco where he sat, as if icy nails had driven themselves through his limbs and into the floor.  ‘ _This isn’t right…this isn’t right_ …’ part of his brain screamed while the rest of his brain tried to get him up off the floor.  Instead of responding, his muscles remained frozen and his breath got ragged in his throat.  Thanks to his father’s intense interest in snakes of all breeds, Draco knew what this one was, and that he wasn’t going to be moving away from it anytime soon. 

Meanwhile, the snake just kept getting closer, freed from its habitat and now slithering forward like muscle pooled on the floor.  Every meter it gained seemed to make it larger, more of the smoky air pealing away from glorious, glinting scales.  If Draco weren’t so horrified, he would have been awed.  As it was, the snake was now so close that Draco could have stroked a hand down the scales of its snout, had he been able to get his muscles to do more than twitch.  Something like terror mixed with ice was sewn through his limbs, so that his heart shuddered and twitched and he couldn’t make a sound.  The pale-haired boy barely managed to shudder and gasp as a forked tongue – silver as mercury against that blue head – reached out to flicker across the chest of his robes.  The foremost section of its body was already sliding over his feet, a crushing weight that brought home just how _huge_ this snake was. 

In the second that Draco’s world narrowed to the reptilian predator in front of him, he felt a presence at his back. 

Potter didn’t bother to use his wand, instead filling the air with sibilant tones, silk wrapped around steel, sand sliding over a cold blade.  The snake’s head jerked, and Draco was close enough that he would have bet his wand that the snake’s face showed _surprise_.  The Malfoy boy himself was stunned beyond belief and a little bit terrified to hear, of all things, Parseltongue pouring over his head.  It curled around his ears, a sound that rasped as much as it caressed, and Draco wondered if he was going crazy to find himself _relieved_ to hear Potter speaking it.  The tones were commanding, sharp, and while Draco still couldn’t drag his eyes away from the snake’s lidless, cobalt gaze, the serpent was slowly pulling back with a curious tilt of its head.  It’s own hiss was much less shocking than Potter’s, coming from a throat made for hissing.  Potter reply in a sliding yet hoarse syllable, and Draco realized they were conversing.  Whatever they said must have included not eating Draco Malfoy, because the snake finally backed off enough that its foremost coil slid off Draco’s ankle. 

Draco was still very much mesmerized by something cold and constricting in the snake’s eyes, but he didn’t think he was going to be eaten, and Potter was releasing a deep sigh of unashamed relief.  Only a Gryffindor could be so tactless.

Right about then, the door to Snape’s office slammed open, and there was the voice of the professor himself, shouting a stunning-spell with enough volume to even make the snake flinch.

~^~

Severus had _not_ been muttering imprecations under his breath.  He had, however, been muttering them in his head, wondering for the millionth time whether old age had finally gotten its claws into the Headmaster.  Albus was a formidable man, but his logic was not flawless, and Severus honestly thought this last move to degrade Potter was lunacy.  Disregarding his own uncertain feelings for the Gryffindor Golden Boy (a little less golden after today), Severus couldn’t condone the tactics used against him. 

And he couldn’t stop thinking about the ridiculous idea that Potter was a possible future Dark Lord! 

Severus was walking fairly quickly already, intent on his meeting with Draco and Harry that would hopefully set a few things straight, at least, and get his mind off this lunacy.  He’d brought Lucius Malfoy in on this, too – although he didn’t know where the man was at the moment, he’d taken a moment to send an owl after the man, caring a very brief note to report to Snape’s office.  The thought of calling Lucius down to his office like a recalcitrant child did the trick of putting a faint, crooked smile onto Severus’s face, a touch of wicked amusement to momentarily brighten his day.

That lasted right up to the moment a painting suddenly shrieked at him, panting that something untoward was going on in his office.

Being informed off trouble by a painting once was eerie enough – twice was just plain odd.  Nonetheless, Severus found himself demanding details of the painting, racing towards his office without a backwards glance as soon as he’d gotten the basic idea (vague as it was).  The paintings were virtually everywhere, but not in Snape’s offices – therefore, the details were spotty, but alarming enough to set the Potions Master running.  His robes whipped behind him like dark wings in a gale, and it was but the work of a thought to slip his wand out into his capable hand.  He swore out loud at the thought that Draco and Potter had managed to get into so much trouble in such short a time, and potentially destroyed his office, if what the paintings had heard was true.  Their concern for Draco was, as always, unexpected and admirable, but Snape was going to tan that boy’s hide right along with Potter’s when he got to them. 

He slid to a halt at the soap-and-cinnamon smell of the half-finished Unpuzzlement Draught that had been steeping in his office, aware that it was totally benign at this stage in its brewing, but rather reactive if exposed to air.  He glared down his nose at the tendrils of smog already pealing out under his door, as if his look could make it go away.  “Idiot Gryffindors,” he said as if jadedly reciting a proverb as he reached to yank the door open and make two students (only one a Gryffindor, admittedly) very, very sorry.

As soon as he opened it, however, his ears were filled with the singularly spine-chilling sound of Parseltongue. 

Instantly, thoughts crashed through his head, impossible and horrifying: ‘ _No, it can’t be the Dark Lord_.’  He felt the strength going out of him just at the thought.  The sound transported him instantly to dark memories of shadowed meetings, of the fear one felt as he or she reported and hoped that their words would please their Dark Lord, aware that displeasure was accompanied by pain.  And Voldemort would always be talking to that pet snake of his, fully aware that it made his underlings shiver. 

Out of pure reflex, Snape directed his wand at the sound and bellowed a stunning-spell simply because it was the quickest spell that came to his mind.  As soon as that thought formed, he knew it wouldn’t work, but he still did it, grimly hoping to at least startled Voldemort for a moment.  Therefore, he was unendingly surprised as the Parseltongue cut off in a very boyish yelp and then a crash as his target was at least tangentially hit by the spell.  With all of the vaporized potion in the air, Severus’s aim had been haphazard at best, and the Dark Lord would have certainly been able to dodge it.  Instead, there was a crash and a thump as something was hit, stumbled, and connected rather solidly with the wall to Severus’s left.  ‘ _What in Merlin’s name is going on_?!’

Reasonably sure that Voldemort was not, after all, in the room (the lack of return spell-fire was a dead giveaway), Snape growled in frustration and pulled himself together to growl out a more useful spell, one that began clearing the air immediately as he waved his wand.  “What is happening in here?” he repeated his mental thought with more control than shock in his voice.  There was no answer, however, and he growled imprecation as he was forced to clear more smog, eventually finding Draco, half-sprawled on the floor a short ways in front of him and looking dazed.  The Malfoy boy didn’t sport any obvious injuries, but before Severus could demand whether his godson was truly all right, he found Potter. 

Severus was sure, if nothing else, that he’d hit the Parselmouth with his stunning-spell, meaning there were precious few conclusions to be drawn as he saw that he had most definitely hit _Potter_.  It was so ironic that he wanted to loose a bitter laugh: he’d just come from Albus’s offices, hearing the old coot talk about _Harry Potter_ becoming the next Dark Lord, and now he’d found none other than the Gryffindor Golden Boy speaking to snakes in his offices.  Yes, Severus would have laughed in a rather manic fashion if the similarities being drawn were not also unsettling.  Apparently the boys had somehow broken Cerule (the recently-named Pit Viper) out of his cage, along with breaking many other things, and the snake was obviously what Potter had been talking to.  Now, Snape flinched and tried to control his breathing as he saw the massive snake undulate practically in Harry’s stunned lap.  Looking at the two – the snake uneasily hissing at the boy’s side, Harry staring at Snape as if the serpent didn’t even frighten him – Severus unwillingly found himself thinking of a young Voldemort, protected by his Nagini. 

It wasn’t until he followed Harry’s eyes did Snape realize he was still pointing his wand at the boy’s chest as if readying himself to kill or incapacitate him at the vaguest movement.  That managed to snap him back to himself, and Snape lowered his wand with a rather loud snarl.  Harry breathed a sigh of _very_ evident relief, and Severus reminded himself that this was just Potter, the bumbling annoyance of his Potions class, and very far from being a Dark Lord indeed if he let himself get knocked into a wall by a simple stunning-spell.  “Wonderful,” Snape drawled darkly as the last of the haze was cleared from the air, giving him a clear view of his descimated office, “I’m reduced to pointing my wand at first-years.  I’m not even going to ask what happened here, as it was clearly a spectacular example of idiocy.  Draco, are you all right?” 

The snapped question was foreboding, but Draco still cleared his dry throat with an audible rasp and answered immediately, if shakily.  “You…own a Vascilli Pit Viper,” were the first words he decided to put on record. 

“Yes, I do,” Severus replied to that in clipped tones, before turning back to Potter and said viper – the snake was obviously no danger to Potter himself, but the serpent was big enough to be a threat to Severus and Draco so long as it was roaming around freely.  “And Cerule was happily kept away from students by a very thick layer of glass, which you _obviously_ managed to completely shatter.  Fifty points from both Gryffindor and Slytherin.”  The two boys didn’t even bother to look put-out by this, possibly because Draco was still rather shaky from almost being eaten, and Harry was still recovering his wits from the glancing connection of the stunning-spell.  Still, the latter boy was alert enough that Severus felt no regret about declaring blatantly, “Potter, if you would, please tell Cerule that the closet is the best place for him right now, being quite roomy, as well as having the benefit of being warm and not littered with broken glass.  Don’t give me that look, Potter, there’s no purpose in denying to those in this room that you are, indeed, quite a Parselmouth.  Now put it to good use.”  Severus swallowed, refusing to admit that he’d nearly choked on the word ‘Parselmouth’ because of the memories it brought up.  Voldemort had been a powerful leader, but also a vicious one. 

For a moment, Harry still stared warily at Snape (who had lowered his wand but not put it away), but he finally decided he feared the professor more than he feared talking to snakes while someone was watching.  Eyes still on the irate Potions Master, Harry leaned over a little, working his mouth once or twice before hissing tones were emitted.  Almost immediately, the blue-and-black snake turned to regard him, and Snape mercilessly pushed down the impulse to shudder.  When it was clear that Harry had the snake under control (its huge body was already doubling back on itself in the direction of the open closet-door), Severus turned belatedly to Draco. 

“Yes,” he repeated to the boy more softly, dropping to a knee, “I own a Vascillai Pit Viper.  I assume you know of its abilities?”

Draco looked as if he had been made of stone a moment before, and was only now learning how to move again – it was a very, very close metaphor.  “They’re…related to Basalisk,” the Malfoy boy grated out as he sat forward a bit with a grimace. 

The Parseltongue stopped its gentle litany across the room, instead Harry’s startled human voice yelping, “Basalisk-?!” 

“Go back to your chore, Potter,” Snape overroad him.  But he was a teacher before anything else, so he went on to explain, “And yes, the Vascillai breed are related to Basalisks, although the former are far less gifted in the art of subduing their victims.  Vascillai merely hypnotize their prey, essentially freezing them.  The effect fades no long after the source is removed.”  And, low-and-behold, it was being removed: Harry was walking by the snake's tail, holding the door open for it considerately and then closing it as the last of the serpent passed through.  Snape muttered a quick spell that would seal the door and strengthen it, just in case the massive snake got into its head that it liked the open room with its tasty humans better.  Potter was still standing next to the closet, looking equal parts embarrassed and horrified at all of this. 

‘ _You_ did _hit him with a stunning-spell_ ,’ Severus felt a chiding voice remind him.  Unfortunately for the two boys, the dark-haired professor was still in too much of a temper to let them off the hook just yet.  “Sit.  Both of you.”  He dragged Draco upright and eased him towards a chair, righting a second one next to it for Potter, who’d opened his mouth to say something.  “Not a word from either of you!” Snape found himself barking.  As his thunderous voice pushed both of the boys into fearful silence, Snape ran a hand over his face in an uncharacteristic expression of emotion.  He slipped around to the other side of his desk, to sit in his own chair – or, really, collapse into it.  Now that he’d truly accepted that You-Know-Who was not actually in his office, he was feeling the backlash of wasted adrenalin, and still highly unsettled by what he’d just learned about Potter.  Dark Lord material indeed.  “Potter, if you don’t stop puttering around by that door, the consequences will be severe.  I don’t like to make a habit of hexing students, but I’m not above making exceptions.” 

With a level of obedience Severus rarely got from Gryffindors, Potter jumped into motion, more-or-less scurrying across the room to sink into the chair next to Draco’s.  Both boys were looking much more themselves, but still very shell-shocked and nervous as they eyed their professor.

Snape didn’t say anything.  He just leaned forward in his desk enough to steeple his fingers and brush them against his lips, closing his eyes and trying to find a way to cope with all of this.  It had been bad enough when he’d known he needed to talk to both boys about their duel, but now his office was in shambles, Draco had nearly been eaten by a snake, and Potter was a Parselmouth. 

When said Parselmouth moved to open his mouth to say something into the silence, Severus felt himself bristle, and he snapped furiously, “Not a word out of you, Potter!”  The boy’s mouth immediately snapped shut and he sunk in his seat: he knew that what Snape really didn’t want to hear was Parseltongue.  Fortunately, a few seconds after the outburst, Snape took a steadying breath and tried to act more like the professor he was, and less like the ex-Death Eater who was haunted by the sibilant tones of Parseltongue.  “Draco,” he still addressed the other boy, “How long has Mr. Potter spoken to snakes?  Have you known?” 

“I-” Draco stuttered, reflexively looking to Potter – but with more awe than fear, Snape noted with something like jaded envy.  Finally, the Slytherin boy admitted, “No.  Potter, you speak Parseltongue?!”

Snape snorted, “Obviously.”  The flushed, affronted look instantly on Draco’s face put the world back to normal, and Snape managed to release the last edges of his unseemly temper.  He began murmuring spells and levitating bits and pieces of his room back into order while the three of them sat there.  Without looking at Potter, but definitely softening his tone a bit, Severus said, “You can speak again, Mr. Potter.  Parselmouths, to my knowledge, don’t speak in that language unless in the direct presence of a serpent anyway.”

The small, brown-haired boy blew out a breath as if he’d been holding it.  “I don’t even know when I’m saying it!” he immediately protested, rather helplessly. 

Snape looked at him in surprise as he levitated a bottle that had fallen, but not broken, back to its shelf.  “How long have you spoken Parseltongue?”

“I don’t know…”  Harry dragged a hand back through his hair, and Snape watched with amusement as Draco made a disgusted face at how it turned Potter’s hair into a rat’s-nest of disarray.  “…Just a few months.”

“And-?” Snape started.

But Harry knew where this was going, and his green eyes hardened in a stubborn expression reminiscent of Lily’s as he stated solidly, “Dumbledore doesn’t know.”

Snape was considering this odd nugget of information (both the words and the tone, which were almost hostile, and definitely not trusting of the friendly-seeming old Headmaster) when his levitation spell slipped a bit – totally accidentally.  The mug he’d been lifting was actually reinforced by spells to make it unbreakable, so Snape hadn’t really worried too much about dropping it midflight.  Nonetheless, it looked rather breakable, especially as it slipped free and tumbled a few meters to the floor.

But stopped midway, hovering in the grip of another levitation spell that had come into being without any words being spoken. 

Snape stiffened in surprise, hands flat on his desk with his wand under the right one as he stared at the hovering mug, then at the two boys.  “Which of you is doing that?” he snapped.  Draco immediately gave things away as his eyes flicked reflexively towards Potter, who was trying and failing to look innocent.  Snape turned his attention on the Gryffindor boy totally, watching as the mask faltered and failed to be replaced by fidgeting embarrassment.  Potter looked down, clearly frazzled.  It didn’t seem as though he’d expected to give away so much today – Snape was willing to bet that the emotional upset of the duel had significantly rattled Potter, so that he was acting more on reflex than anything else.  “Just how many secrets are you hiding, Potter?” he asked in a low voice. 

Harry glanced over to the hovering mug, which was still in the air in his wobbling grip.  “Two less than I was before,” he finally gave in and said in a small, disgruntled voice.  Snape just hummed in acceptance of that remarkably Slytherin answer and let it go.

“Well then, go on, Potter.  If you can perform wandless, put it back up on the shelf,” he coaxed unremorsefully.  “You can hardly give yourself away more than you have already, so you may as well be useful.”

“But-!” Draco sputtered to life, sitting up and flashing glances between Harry and Snape, “Potter can’t do wandless!  He’s no older than I am-”

Unaffected by the building rant, Snape merely said, “Potter, drop the mug.”

It fell instantly to the floor with a clang.  Potter looked to Draco; Draco looked to Potter; Potter looked uncomfortable and embarrassed; Draco still didn’t look like he could fathom this.  So Snape sighed, stood up, and came around the table.  It was but the work of a moment to take Harry’s wand away, although the boy protested at the last minute as he realized what Severus was doing.  Snape had to grab one bony wrist and keep it out of the way, but a second later, he had Potter’s wand and was returning to his side of the desk.  Before Potter could truly get defensive, Severus put his own wand on the table, placing Potter’s next to it so that no one was touching either.  “Pick up the mug, Potter.”

“But-”

“Unless Mr. Malfoy does it, that mug is not going to levitate without you performing wandless,” Severus explained patiently, if rather boredly.  When Potter just continued to stare at him, blinking dumbly, Severus sighed.  “Can you only perform wandless magic on reflex?”

“N-no,” Harry admitted, sitting back, still looking unhappy about Snape taking his wand.

“Good, then prove to young Mr. Malfoy here that you do not, indeed, need your wand or you words to perform magic.  Since you seem in the business of exposing unexpected and shocking secrets today, you may as well convince all of your audience.”  He tipped his head slightly towards Draco. 

Looking supremely discomfited, Harry clenched his fists a few times on his lap, looking between the two other occupants in the room.  Snape’s face was set again in its usual half-sneer, but somehow it was more indulgent than usual – patient.  Draco, for his part, still looked skeptical, but also quite curious.  Could Potter really do this?  The evidence was certainly piling up, and one more show would be all it took to tip Draco into the real of believing. 

So Harry looked over at the mug, and without so much as a bat of his eye, it began lifting again, this time shakily drifting across the room to the high shelf it had originally occupied.  Draco’s jaw dropped in a rather un-Malfoy-like fashion  Severus was just in the process of being amused by when Harry grabbed his attention again by speaking: “Please…sir, if you could not tell anyone.”

The boy’s tone was unexpectedly pleading, and Severus, surprisingly, agreed almost immediately with a nod.  “I assume you mean specifically do not tell the Headmaster?” he pressed, making full use of the knowledge he’d gained from Harry’s last reaction to the Headmaster’s name. 

All eyes were on Harry as he turned a bit red and also stiffened a bit.  “I didn’t say-”

“Come off it, Potter, it’s clear to a blind rat that you don’t like the old coot,” Draco spoke up.  He was clearly recovered from his staring-contest with Cerule, it would seem, if his dry, pompous tone was any indication. 

Severus decided it would be best for him to interrupt the boy’s conversation in infancy, before they could bristle at one another.  “I was thinking more along the lines of your Parseltongue, Mr. Potter.  Your ability with wandless will undoubtedly cause a stir, but seeing as your being a Parselmouth would cause utter chaos, I’m inclined to let you keep this little secret – on your word that you will use neither wandless nor Parseltongue without informing me.”

Although he usually didn’t get along with Snape, Harry had had a rough day, and this was the best thing he’d heard in all of it.  He nodded rapidly, green eyes nervous but sincere. 

“Good, now you two can help me clean up my office.  While you do so, I expect you to explain precisely how it came to be in this condition,” Snape said, standing an returning to his usual, cranky, domineering self.  Both boys scrambled to obey. 

As the story of their fight came out in shamefaced sentences – split between the boys, one picking up when the other was too uncomfortable to continue – Severus kept half of his mind on berated them for their squabbling while the rest of his mind pondered over what he’d learned today.  By all rights, he should report straight to Albus now, with this knowledge of Potter.  After all, it was only sensible that the head of the school be knowledgeable of the magical capabilities of his students.

But after listening to Albus’s paranoia about Potter being an upcoming Dark Lord, Severus hesitated at the idea.  James he had hated, but Lilly he had loved, and Severus did not want to condemn her son for powers that were not his fault.  So Severus Snape did what he did best, and sealed his lips around more secrets, and oversaw the cleaning of his office while he waited for Lucius to arrive.  After all, this had all started because of the duel, and that misunderstanding still needed to be remedied. 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that Draco and Severus had very different reactions to Harry's Parseltongue - I'll hopefully make that more evident later. Either way, Draco isn't really that afraid of it!
> 
> Definitely some Lucius/Sev time in the next chapter! I've got another duel planned... :3


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus's office is cleaned, a snake returns to its home...and then Severus and Lucius duel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, for realzies. They duel. (It's brief, but hopefully fun and enlightening!)

~^~

“Do hurry along with sweeping, both of you,” Severus commanded with patently bored impatient, using his magic to put things back together that had been shattered upon impact with the floor.  A few of the more heavily damaged oddments he was just having swept into the trash, partially because he’d been meaning to thin the ranks of things on his shelves and partially because he took pleasure in punishing Potter and Draco through menial tasks such as sweeping.  “Lucius should be here soon-”

“You called my father down here?!” Draco jerked around to exclaim, dropping his broom so hastily that it nearly caught Harry on the head as it fell.  The Gryffindor grabbed it and glared. 

“Hardly for the reasons that you think,” Snape drawled idly, recalling how the paintings had called him – once was a coincidence, twice meant that there was definitely something between Draco and the castle paintings that urged investigation.  Turning at last to the shattered wall of Cerule’s tank, Snape finished explaining impatiently, “Believe it or not, I called the two of you down here for reasons other than destroying my office, and the original reason included your father, Draco.  However, if he comes in here to see the mess you two have made, we might end up wasting _quite_ a bit of time explaining.”  He looked pointedly over at Potter, who winced a bit at the knowing look.  “And that would be rather against your wishes, wouldn’t it, Potter?  I thought so.  Draco, on your word, you won’t speak to your father of Mr. Potter’s abilities.”  Ignoring Draco’s half-formed, reflexive protests, Snape turned back to the task of fixing his snake’s habitat and muttered distractedly, “Lucius is quite dangerous enough as it is, without giving him information as leverage against a person that he’s still on the fence about _liking_.”

“He’s on the fence?” Harry was obviously surprised by even that tiny concession. 

“I don’t hear your broom sweeping, Potter.”

“You don’t hear Malfoy’s either-”

“Ten points from Gryffindor.  Ten more if I hear words before sweeping resume.”

Rather sullenly, Harry got back to work, making sure to first shove the second broom back into Draco’s hands.  The blonde actually stuck out his tongue at him, and they bent back to work physically while Snape used his greater skills magically.  He had gotten all of the glass out of the terrarium and was just about to put it all back in place as one unsullied pane when Potter’s hesitant voice distracted him. 

“Um…Professor?  Don’t take points away!  It’s just that…”  Snape had turned around to narrow his dark eyes at the verbally stumbling first-year, who was wringing the handle of his broom as he stood next to the closed closet door with an uncomfortable look on his young face.  He glanced again at the door – with the massive snake hissing quietly behind it – and tried to explain something that he’d gotten used to never talking about, “Well, your snake – Cerule – is insisting that you let him crawl back into his tank instead of moving him magically.  He says it hurts his stomach.”  Harry dropped his head to stare at his feet tensely, clearly expecting his words to be poorly received considering how well Snape had reacted to his last bit of serpent-talk.  At least this time he was translating it instead of speaking Parseltongue. 

Snape tried to keep his features schooled into an unruffled look, when really his skin was crawling again at the reminder that Potter could understand the snake behind the door.  Pretending to be unaffected, Snape moved the particles of glass aside with a murmured word and a wave of his wand, likewise using magic to remove the sharp edges at the edge of the tank.  “Can you ask Cerule,” he said, trying not to sound ruffled and instead sounding condescending, “if he might make this trip without trying to eat one or more of us then?”

Looking up, a bit unsure what to make of this whole conversation or what it might lead to, Harry hesitated a moment before turning his head towards the closet without removing his eyes from Severus.  A wise move, considering Severus had nearly hexed him unconscious the last time he’d spoken Parseltongue.  Slowly and smoothly, the rasping, steel-on-silk tones filtered out of Potter’s mouth, and Snape resisted the urge to stiffen even as the snake hissed in response. 

When Harry turned back to Snape fully, he initially continued the conversation in Parseltongue before clearing his throat in alarm and starting again, “He…he says he can.  I’ve explained to him that we’re all friends, and that he will get fed much better meals…and more regularly…if he doesn’t try to eat people.  Is it all right if I open the door?”

“Just get on with it, Potter,” Severus grunted, raising his wand a little and stepping out of the snake’s path, also closer to Draco.  Draco was doing a wonderfully calm impression of Lucius, pretending perfectly that this was normal and didn’t bother him; Severus wished he could do the same, but his usual poker-face felt strained. 

“Um…Professor?” Harry said again, hand poised on the door-handle.

Snape snapped back tensely, “Yes, what is it, Potter?”

“Are you holding your wand like that to shoot me or the snake if something goes wrong?”

‘ _Good question_ …’  Since Snape didn’t have any friendly reputation to maintain, he just stated the truth without regret, “Conceivably both, Potter.”  As the boy’s eyes widened, mortified, behind his glasses, Snape rolled his eyes and added, “Or did you want me to lie to you?  Open the door and kindly get on with it.”  He unashamedly raised his wand a little further, not quite aiming it but keeping it obviously ready. 

Gulping and then bobbing his head ridiculously, the thin Gryffindor boy turned and opened the closet door, clearly more afraid of Snape than of the snake that could eat him whole.  Cerule immediately slithered out, pausing with a meter of his body out in the room to turn back to Potter, and the two exchanged some soft, hissing syllables.  Snape shuddered unconsciously as the snake looped its body idly, letting muscled coils roll around Potter as the snake slid the rest of the way out into the room.  If Harry minded having the snake’s body riding over his feet or sliding against his shins or calves, he didn’t show it. 

Possibly more disturbing, in Severus’s books, was the Draco looked absolutely entranced – and not by the snake this time.  Ignoring his godfather’s radiating tension, Draco took a step forward to put himself level with the tall Potions Master, eyes wide and mouth open slightly as he listened and watched Harry work with the snake.  What was it about Malfoys and snakes?!  Grumbling something uncomplimentary about tastes, Severus grabbed Draco’s shoulder before he could mindlessly wander closer.  The viper’s tapered, black-on-blue head turned their way, as if momentarily magnetized to its almost-meal of earlier. 

Harry turned to Snape and Draco, and for a moment – again – he hissed at them in that voice that ran sickly-cold shivers up Snape’s spine.  “Sorry,” Harry said, in English this time, as Snape ground his teeth.  “Cerule just wanted Draco to know that he hadn’t intended to eat him.  At least not after he figured out Draco was…”  He turned back to look down at Cerule, who was halfway to his habitat but had the last length of his tail looped lazily around Harry’s careless ankles.  “What did you say I was?”

“Parseltongue, Potter,” Snape sighed, resigned to the fact that this situation couldn’t get odder: he’d never expected to find himself putting up with an adolescent Parselmouth-in-training.  “Kindly use it when talking to the snake, and English when talking to us.”

Shooting a halfhearted glare at Snape that was part embarrassment and part displeasure, Potter switched rather vindictively to Parseltongue, keeping his eye on Snape as if to see him squirm.  At that moment, Snape was more tempted than ever to hex the brat, but restrained himself, refusing to let Potter see him lose his composure.  Draco looked dumbfounded and awed again, as if he’d been hypnotized by the snake – or, maybe, by Potter. 

After a few more hissed exchanges, Harry said – in the correct language – “He calls me a Snake-Lord, and that he wouldn’t hurt anyone who was with me, like Draco.  Or you.  But mostly just because you feed him.” 

Severus snorted at the very serpentine logic, relaxing enough to lower his wand and at the same time ignoring Draco _just_ long enough for the slender blond boy to slip forward again.  “Hey, so he knows that I’m with you,” Draco stated in his aristocratic tones, quite puffed up now that he wasn’t worried about being eaten, “How did he know that?”

Unexpectedly, Harry reddened again, looking down in uncomfortable embarrassment and scratching at the hair at the back of his neck.  “I…well, I told him, of course.  Right when I first started talking, you know?”

“Oh.”  Draco cocked his head as if sensing something else behind the words, but he let it drop to cross his arms and ask cockily, “Can I touch him?”

“What?!” Harry and Snape said in tandem, and Cerule turned his great head a bit as if understanding some of the human language (which he might well have). 

Arrogant as a fresh falcon, the Malfoy boy kept his chin up and his posture easy as he clarified, “I asked if I could touch him.  If he’s not going to eat me, then I don’t see why not.”

“Sure,” Harry said even as Snape stepped forward with a choked, “No.”  Everyone looked uncomfortably at one another for a moment before Snape stepped into his roll of professor again and took control, firming his voice and declaring, “We’ve already wasted enough time on this.  Potter, kindly hurry your snake along so that I can reseal the tank and allow life to go along like normal.  Unless you want to explain your Parseltongue abilities to Lucius Malfoy?”

Harry blanched and immediately turned to say something rapidly to Cerule, who unhurriedly angled his wedge-shaped head before turning back to his home.  Potter made a soft squeak of surprise as the snake’s tail temporarily tightened around his ankles (nearly causing him to fall over) before releasing.  The terrarium was set a ways up on the wall, but it was child’s-play for the huge snake to lift its body vertically, head stretching up and into its living quarters before bunching its glistening-blue body to follow.  That much muscle in one place was humbling to watch, and the three humans in the room took it in very different ways: Potter seemed not bothered at all, as if Cerule may as well have been the neighbor’s dog; Draco looked as though he were developing a worshipful complex for the snake; Severus wondered if he’d have a nervous breakdown before he could get the glass up between himself and Cerule.  He liked snakes as a rule (he had to, hanging around with Lucius), but today had simply been too trying for words.

Finally, the snake was coiled up upon its earthen nest, and Snape snapped out the words that returned all of the glass to its original position, reforming like ice melting together into one seamless whole.  Cerule curled his coiled body once – a sea of blue with jagged black flecks – and seemed to go to sleep, head buried somewhere amidst the layers of his body. 

“Right then-”  Severus turned his head as he felt the familiar brush against his magical wards, and he relaxed to know that Lucius was almost here – good, now he could heft some of this responsibility onto someone else’s shoulders, even if Potter’s wandless and Parselmouth abilities were going to stay unshared.  Severus trusted Lucius – with his life, even – but he was practical and pessimistic enough to know that the Malfoy patriarch was as Slytherin as they came, and wont to use information for his own benefit.  Snape didn’t blame him for that, but he also wasn’t going to stick his neck out where it might get cut off.  It was just commonsense.  “Draco, before you father arrives, I’m afraid I must ask you to swear not to give away Potter’s abilities.  This information will be safest if it does not spread.”

Draco, whose mood had been so good by this point, turned with a sudden frown.  “Just what are you insinuating?” he began to wind up, “My father-” 

“Is what?” came Lucius’s smooth voice as the door opened, and Severus tried not to curse at the same time that he tried not to look guilty, telling himself he had nothing to be guilty about.  After all, keeping secrets was what he did best, and both Severus and Lucius lived in a delicate world where their interactions were half built on lies, half on careful truths. 

“Is terribly slow at coming when summoned,” Snape drawled to pick up the tail-end of the sentence, controlling the situation a bit.  It was the best he could do until he could get Draco to swear on silence…not an experience he as looking forward to.  Snape, right now, found himself in the unexpected predicament of being unsure what student to protect more: Harry Potter, whom he’d have sworn he hated just days ago, or Draco, his godson.  If he sided with protecting Harry, he’d have no choice but to force Draco into a magical oath of silence – and if Lucius ever found out, he’d probably Cruciatus Severus right into next Tuesday.  But if he let Draco babble to his father, and Potter suffered for his unusual skills getting to the wrong ears, then that would be another failure on Snape’s books.  His moral code was ripped and torn to ribbons, but it was a lie to say that it was dead, and did not someday hold some hope of growing strong again.  His moral code said that he couldn’t leave Lily’s son on his own, his secrets like gaps in shabby armor.  Right now, in fact, Harry was watching him with a slightly mortified expression, as if expecting Severus to go back on his promise any second and tell Lucius everything. 

Fortunately, Lucius was too amused by Severus’s derogatory proclamation to pick up on the tension in the air.  “Come now, Severus, really.  It’s not like I’m one of your students, and it’s not like you even told me what this was about.”  He looked around suddenly, white brows lowering over his eyes.  “Have you redecorated?”

“Actually, your boy and Potter succeeded in ‘redecorating’, but I wouldn’t call it an improvement.”  And then Snape went on to explain everything, focusing on the duel and then skimming over his talk with Albus and everything after – all Lucius needed to know what that Albus was up to his old tricks again, and demeaning two students in the name of the so-called ‘greater good’.  He added that Draco’s magic had blown up merely because he saw no reason why not to, when the missing objects on his shelves were rather obvious to an eye as discerning as the older Malfoy’s.  Harry’s skills were not mentioned, and Cerule was left out of the story altogether, with Snape taking responsibility for getting the situation under control.  “So, since this is obviously causing some degree of _upset_ ,” Snape enunciated clearly from where he was now sitting in his chair, “I think that you and I might be wise to explain the details off being magically compatible and linked with one another.  I’d have preferred to do that before my office suffered, but-”

“I’d have preferred it if that old ogre Albus didn’t have to manipulate my son!” Lucius seethed, and his level of anger was truly impressive.  Even though Severus hadn’t served as a counter to Lucius’s magic in quite some time, he felt the buzz along his veins that he knew to be Lucius’s fury.  It was a ghostly touch – a mere echo – but it reminded Severus of years ago. 

Of course, the melancholy was left to Snape: Lucius was totally in the present, feeling only protective outrage.  Ignoring the two boys (who’d moved unconsciously to sand next to each other a short ways off), Lucius brace his hands on Severus’s desk to lean forward and keep fuming, “Are you realy saying that Dumbledore just let them duel and didn’t tell them that their magics would cancel each other out?!”

“Wait-”  Draco interrupted, stepping forward, Harry a slim shadow a pace behind him.  Draco was the talkative one, and right now looked like he was about to adopt some of his father’s temper as well.  “Are you saying that our spells failed because we are Resonants?” 

Although neither Lucius nor Severus had heard the old word in some time, they easily fell into using it.  “Precisely, young Draco,” Snape slipped into his professorial persona, “What the Headmaster so blatantly failed to tell you was that you would never have managed to magically injure one another.  Do you remember what I told you about your magics being complementary to each other?”

Harry perked up, surprising Severus by remembering quite acutely, “Like ripples countering each other in a pond?”

Lucius looked impressed, too, by the bespectacled boy’s understanding.  “Yes, quite.  Now, under normal circumstances, that wouldn’t matter – many people have magic that is complementary to one another in the wizarding world, and have no problem hexing one another.”

“However,” Snape picked up easily, “Ever since the explosion of Draco’s prematurely-matured magic in the Slytherin common-room, Harry’s magic had been working truly as a Resonant – each of you is much more in sync with one another now.  To the extent, in fact, that each of you will nullify the others spells if they get too close – but I’m sure you noticed that.”  He finished silkily as he watched the gobsmacked expressions on both boy’s faces.

Draco was the one to speak first, his eyes dropping unexpectedly to the floor.  His voice was soft: “I…I just thought that I was a failure.”

Lucius made a sudden growling noise in the back of his throat, and Severus knew that had Dumbledore been in the room, the Headmaster would have been faced with the same vindictive, paternal protectiveness that had sent Crabbe Sr. and Goyle Sr. to Saint Mungo’s.  Fortunately, the Headmaster was far away at the moment, and the only outlet Lucius had was for his more tender nature as he swept across the room to his son’s side, pulling him close despite the people watching. 

“No, Draco,” said the father in a gentler tone than most anyone heard, “Never that.”  Draco would doubtlessly start squirming out of his father’s arms in a moment, but for now, the pale-haired head just buried itself against the robes at his father’s sternum, and Harry and Severus both watched with something like envy.  Neither knew much about that kind of compassionate attention, and both were envious in their own ways.

It was Severus who eventually cleared his throat.  “I was planning, Lucius, that you and I could stage a duel, to explain what we mean in actions rather than words.  Even if one of us were not a Gryffindor, renowned for their inability to learn from lectures alone-”

“Hey!”

Snape ignored Harry completely.  “-We are talking about some rather abstract topics.  Might a demonstration be in order?”

That cheered Lucius up considerably, as he turned away from Draco and partially to Snape with a smile beginning to curl across his handsome, angular face.  One arm still around Draco’s shoulders, he nodded once in interest.  “I like the way you think, Severus.  Have you a place to duel?”

“Yes, in fact.”  Snape stood, resettling his dark robes around him as he rounded the desk and stepped between the Malfoys and Potter towards the door.  “If you’ll follow me.”

~^~

They were all back in the room where this problem had started, only now it was devoid of everyone except Severus and Lucius, facing each other on the dueling platform, and Draco and Harry sitting nervously on some conjured chairs down below to watch.  They weren’t sure what to expect, but both were desperately eager to understand why they’d been humiliated in front of their peers – they were also painfully curious to see two other Resonants in action. 

When seeing Snape and Lucius Malfoy around – as separate entities – it was easy to forget that the two older men had gone through what Draco and Harry were going through right now.  Severus and Lucius both had explained the past situation in more-or-less vague ways, but the boys understood that Lucius’s magic hadn’t been triggered at its fullest in such a violent way, like with Draco. 

The two men faced each other at the middle of the dueling platform, before parting to either side.  “It’s been awhile, hasn’t it, Severus?” Lucius mused with a playful twitch of a smile, keen eyes bright. 

“If you are referring to acting as your Resonant, yes, it has,” Severus agreed blandly, but then a vicious little smirk just twitched his lips as he saluted with his wand and added, “But dueling you?  I think I can remember how to do that.”  He turned and swept away to his head of the platform, Lucius following suit at a more composed pace. 

“All right, now – both of you!  Pay attention!” Snape began to lecture even as he turned to face Lucius and felt his magic rising up in anticipation for the duel.  “Lucius and myself had been separated long enough to no longer necessarily act as Resonants, but we can show you what happened during your own duel.”

“Then we’ll show you how to counteract it,” Lucius called back almost merrily, “Just for educational purposes, of course.”  He blandly ignored Snape’s glare, until the Potions Master just raised his wand and sank into a dueling posture.  “Ready, Severus?”

“Stop being a pompous prick, Malfoy, and get on with it,” Snape retorted as he temporarily forgot his audience.  Both Draco and Harry choked on a gasp and nearly missed the first spell that Lucius fired off.

It was fast – this was obviously where Draco had inherited his speed.  Green sparks were spiraling from Lucius’s wand as fast as thought, sizzling through the air towards Severus.  He deflected them, narrowing his eyes as if in momentary consternation.  Before Harry could point out that that as not what had happened at all between himself and Draco, Snape snapped, “Again,” and this time straightened and lowered is wand hand to his side.

Lucius looked dubious.  “Come now, Severus, we can practice a bit.  It’s been years since you even accidentally nullified my magic-”

“Sparing thoughts for my feelings now, are you, Lucius?” Severus drawled sardonically with obvious contempt. 

Instantly, the ingratiating little smile froze on the aristocrat’s face.  “Have it your way then.”  And he sent another spell flying with a whip-fast jerk of his wand and a barked word, this time creating a wall of purple flames that roared towards Snape.  Sometimes it was easy to just see Lucius Malfoy as the aristocrat and the lofty Pureblood, and forget how incredibly dangerous he was on a wizarding level.  Now, he watched with a playfully merciless smile as his magic raged across the length of the dueling platform and both Draco and Harry lurched to their feet in shock.

Severus actually flinched, wondering if Lucius secretly wanted him dead or if the man really trusted him to be able to nullify the spell by the resonance of his core alone – with, as Lucius had pointed out, very little warm-up.  He only had a split-second to decide on a course of action, however, and in the end he kept his wand at his sides and his mouth devoid of spells, instead feeling that rhythm of power that was all Lucius.

The fiery spell sizzled out as if it had hit a heavy veil of mist, dissipating with an angry cough so that absolutely nothing touched Severus, although his robes were still blown back.  If his eyes were a bit wild, no one was commenting, although Lucius had a smug look that said he’d perhaps noticed.  Belatedly, the Potions Master cleared his throat, straightening so that his dark hair fell back form his face and he looked more like a professor again.  “I assume that was similar to what happened when the two of you dueled?” he managed to say in a voice similar to his usual base tones. 

Draco was so stunned that it was Harry who eventually nodded first.  “Y-Yes, Professor.”  He grew a little bolder.  “So that was really because of our magic being compatible?”

Severus gave up on explaining the intricate details – that being compatible alone did not cause spells to sputter and die with proximity, but being in a situation where two magics truly fell into sync with one another _did_ – and merely grunted, “Correct, in the most basic way.  The same principle that keeps Draco’s magic from escaping him while he is in your presence is the same principle that will not allow you to hit one another with magic.”

“But my dad would have hit you with the first spell,” Draco regained his composure to step up next to Harry.  Both boys were small for their age, which somehow made them look natural together – one light haired, the other a dark-haired, bespectacled copy – standing almost the same height, shoulder-to-shoulder.  “It didn’t fade at all!”

“Very good, Draco,” Lucius applauded with his smooth smile, and as much as Snape liked lecturing, Lucius liked stealing the limelight.  “That is because one can get around those peculiarities of resonating with another wizard.”

Snape didn’t quite like where this was going – moments like this reminded him why he sometimes didn’t trust Lucius, or at least didn’t turn his back on him without a lot of forethought first.  There was no reason for either Draco or Harry to learn how to shoot spells at one another, for Merlin’s sake!  “Being a Resonant is also not a permanent condition,” he carefully sidetracked the conversation, keeping it in more neutral waters, “Draco will eventually grow into his magic or learn to contain it on his own, and then, Potter, you will be free to walk about as you wish.  The more you distance yourselves after that, the more quickly the effects will fade.”  He looked at Lucius, adding, “I can only speak for myself, but it is difficult – but possible – to resurrect the condition.  Obviously.”  Proved by his unharmed, un-burnt condition at this moment. 

Nonetheless, he was going to have to have a talk with Lucius about overdoing it a bit.  A wizard like Lucius was not to be messed with, and right now, he looked amused to have proved exactly that.  As if reading Severus’s irritated thoughts, Lucius turned to him, still smiling his gracious smile, “I knew you’d be able to do it, old friend.”

Severus just _humphed_ and went back to lecturing the two boys on what he knew about Resonants, willing his adrenalin to go down. 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cerule is sooooo fun to write about - that snake will definitely make a reappearance. Snape and Lucius are definitely also going to have a few delicate talks about things...things like shooting deadly spells at one another when there's a slight chance of death. That's just how their relationship works ;)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit more dueling - some of it between Draco and Harry (all in good fun), and a bit more between Sev and Lucius (unexpectedly less fun).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the last chapter, someone pointed out that Harry always gets the short end of the stick when things go wrong - in this chapter, you'll see that maybe someone is in his corner ;) Some almost-bonding time, if you look at it right!

~^~

The adults dueled for a bit longer, ostensibly to convince the first-years that this was truly what happened whenever two Resonants tried to jinx each other.  In reality…it felt like old times, and even Snape had to admit he was having a bit of fun.  Lucius continued to exhibit his whip-crack speed while Severus warmed up more slowly, eventually working his way into a firestorm of spells as if they’d been piling up behind his lips slowly since the duel began, only to pour forth now.  It was gratifying to watch both Draco’s and Harry’s jaws drop and their eyes widen in shock at the swift bolts Lucius was sending into Severus’s magical hail – with nothing actually making it within two meters of either man’s body. 

Clearly, Lucius was making good on his threat to try and get a spell through, something that took a careful shifting of a wizard’s core.  It was possible for Resonants to hit each other with magic, and after all of his time practicing magic as individual entities, it was an even easier trick to accomplish.  Severus began frowning darkly as Lucius’s smirk spread, the only signs that two battles were now going on: the spectacular clash of magic and the undercurrent of magical ripples that were trying to overcome one another.  It was difficult to keep their magical signatures in sync (thus nullifying each other’s magic) while Lucius was suddenly so keen on getting them _out_ of sync again.  It took a considerable amount of concentration from Snape to prevent this, and he called and end to the duel before anyone could notice that he was sweating, his breathing fast.  Lucius looked outwardly put-out, but beneath that…his eyes showed that he was _impressed_. 

After that, Harry and Draco were coaxed back up onto the dueling platform, replacing the two adults.  It was much different standing up there with such a different and smaller audience: scarier at first, because the audience was _Lucius_ Malfoy and Professor _Snape_ , but then the boys relaxed as they realized both adults merely meant to help them.  Snape even toned down his ridicule, although he looked as imposing as ever with his dark hair, eyes, and robes. 

Timidly and uneasily, the two boys went at it, Harry shooting a spell first and Draco flinching even though he knew the spell would never reach him.  The spell fizzled out with a pathetic cough, and it was still rather embarrassing until Snape voiced quiet approval.  Then Harry and Draco perked up a bit, and Draco retaliated with a quick, sharp spell. 

“Marvelous, Draco,” Lucius applauded in his smooth voice, eyes alight as he saw just how fast his boy was (regardless of whether the spell actually made it to its target), “Shot at anyone other than young Mr. Potter, you’d likely have ended the duel right then.”  Draco puffed up under his father’s praise, shooting off another spell with the same lightning speed and precision.  Harry lifted his wand at the same time, and created as shield right in between them – Draco’s spell was still strong when it hit it, being further away from Harry’s person.  The shield held, and Draco pouted. 

As the two boys got comfortable with the idea of being able to shoot magic at each other with total impunity, Snape just watched, making relatively few comments except to correct stances or tell them that this spell or that would have fizzled out regardless of whether they shot at their Resonant or not.  His flat, faintly-bored expression hid the steady procession of thoughts marching along inside his head, as he pondered his present company and the complications that arose because of them.  He hadn’t had time to magically swear Draco into silence about Harry’s abilities, and unless he did so, he found himself in the novel state of being _worried_ about Potter’s wellbeing.  While Snape continued to be quite callous outwardly to the Potter boy, he found his emotions inside far softer and less vindictive; this was Lily’s boy more and more to him, and that was causing warmer, protective instincts to overshadow the usual grouchy ones.  After the talk with Albus made him realize that the old man actually _feared_ Harry’s potential to some degree, Snape looked at the boy and realized that precious few people were actually on Harry’s side. 

Sighing as he realized he was going soft, Severus decided – tentatively – that he could, perhaps, watch out for the little dunderhead a bit. 

Even if it meant angering the Malfoys, although he truly hoped he could avoid that.  Severus and Lucius were friends, true, but it was a friendship touched by caution on Snape’s part from time to time.  He only hoped that he could keep Draco from talking without incurring Lucius’s fatherly wrath. 

“All right, that’s quite enough,” Snape finally snapped, when it looked like the boys were on the verge of developing bad habits: shooting willy-nilly at a target that was impervious to magic sometimes went to a person’s head, and Snape didn’t want to be around when either Harry or Draco unthinkingly winged a spell at each other and hit someone else (someone who was _not_ their Resonant) instead.  “The purpose of this exercise was to prove to you both that you are not, after all, spellcasting failures – not to play around with spells you barely know.”  He curled his lip slightly, glad when both boys seemed cowed enough to prove they were taking him seriously and recalling the implications of goofing off magically.  “Dueling is not something done for _fun_ ,” he finished his lesson pointedly.

And then Lucius ruined it by snorting, a noise perfectly timed so that everyone heard it and Draco and Harry turned their heads to the pale-haired wizard. 

“Really, Severus?  Not for fun?” Lucius drawled, “That’s a bit overdramatic, even for you, old friend.”

Nettled by this challenge to his authority but resigned to the fact that chaos was simply in Lucius’s nature, Snape briefly sent his eyes skyward before answering tightly, “And what would you prefer, Lucius?  Your son playing wizarding tag?  That would get him expelled even _with_ your influence.”

Lucius laughed at Severus’s jaded tone, but gave in pleasantly enough, “Touché, Severus.  I yield!”  He turned to his son, silver eyes still full of sly mirth but his words at least conducive to order, “No using magic outside of strictly controlled conditions, all right, Draco?  Even if your only company is the impervious Mr. Potter here.”

It was disturbing that Draco just reflected his father’s smile, although he agreed as smoothly as water over a fish, “Of course, father.” 

Severus noticed Harry watching the Malfoy’s with one incredulous brow raised, and when Harry and Severus’s eyes met inadvertently for a second, it was obvious to both that they were clearly distrustful of smiling Malfoy’s.  Snape looked away quickly, equally uncomfortable with the realization that he’d been sharing a long-suffering look with the Boy Who Lived.  He had so many thoughts going on in his head about these two boys and their father that he almost missed what Lucius was saying to him. 

“One more round, Severus?” was Lucius’s pleasant request, as the boys filed down from the platform, leaving it invitingly empty.  “Just to leave on a good note; I’m perfectly aware that I’m a skilled duelist, and no one could watch you spellcast and say you are anything other than beautiful to watch.”  Snape found his face heating slightly at Lucius’s open approval, a warmth that stemmed from the fact that his heart-rate had imperceptibly picked up.  Lucius was still meeting his eyes with an intense silver gaze.  “The boys would be well-served to spare a few more minutes watching a couple of old pros cast spells.”

Severus could have pointed out that it would be a rather half-cocked lesson, since the spells would be nullified before reaching completion in most cases.  But maybe Lucius had stroked his vanity a little – what little he had, which was little indeed – or else Severus liked the way that the elder Malfoy was grinning his playful, lopsided grin at the thought of one last duel.  “Fine,” he pretended to agree under duress, once against striding towards the platform to take up Harry’s previous position.  He made it clear to everyone (and perhaps tried to convince himself), that this was still a lesson, and not an indulgence, “Watch carefully.  I imagine you won’t even recognize half of these spells, but do make an effort to watch for proper dueling posture and wand movements you recognize.”

“Will there be a test?” came Potter’s voice unexpectedly, slightly cheeky.  He was smiling, 

For once, Severus didn’t instantly snarl at the impudence.  Instead, his own mouth curled up for a second at once side.  “If I don’t think you and Draco are paying ample attention, yes,” he said in a tone that was more joking and threatening, although definitely still holding a certain amount of sincerity.  Never let it be said that Professor Snape missed and opportunity to dump exams and lengthy papers upon unprepared students.  “Are you ready, Lucius?”

“Always, Severus.  Surely you don’t think I’m getting slow in my old age, do you?” the aristocrat teased.

Severus just snorted, then grunted, “Begin,” with no more preamble than that. 

Despite the lack of warning, Lucius got in the first shot.  His eyes had widened briefly at hearing Severus so informally start their duel, but then he’d been whipping his wand up with a hiss of spell-words.  A scorpion wasn’t half as fast as Lucius Malfoy in a duel, and Severus was glad that the man was his Resonant – otherwise, he’d probably be in trouble.  As it was, the Potions Master simply lowered his hands to his sides, focusing on the resonating energies around and inside him and trusting the spell to peter-out, which it did.  It was a subtle bit of taunting defiance as he simply faced Lucius’s oncoming spell without defense and without flinching, and the brief flash of surprised temper on Lucius’s face was worth making the Weasley twins scrub cauldrons for a week.  Before Lucius could make a verbal comment, Severus lifted his wand in a controlled motion and blasted off a spell of his own.  

In a fight, Lucius was a predator, in the sense that he was very careful to avoid injury while insuring the ultimate defeat of his ‘prey’.  Any good predator knew innately the fragility of his or her own body, and sought to keep themselves intact for future battles.  That was how Lucius worked: the reason he fought with such speed was for the purpose of finishing off duels as fast as possible, almost before they began, if he could.  Severus had seen Lucius incapacitate an opponent before the other duelist could even get a single shot off, and there wasn’t a Death Eater that didn’t flinch a bit whenever Lucius twitched towards his wand (by then it was often too late to retaliate anyway against the lightning-fast aristocrat). 

Severus’s technique was different; while he, too, detested injury to his person, his own dueling habits were more befitting an ambush predator.  He was willing to wait and watch (and endure) for some time until he got the feel of his opponent’s strengths and weaknesses, and that was when he’d truly begin the fight.  He was quick enough to deflect spells until that point, and to keep his opponent on his or her toes in the meanwhile.  Lucius had once fondly referred to Severus as a wave building, barely a ripple in the sea until it reached the shore, where it finally broke and towered before the final crash upon the sand.  Severus liked to think he was more controlled and patient than a mere wave, but he’d humored Lucius and had noted the respect in the pale-haired man’s tone. 

Now, though, Lucius was fighting rather differently than usual – more recklessly.  At first, this made sense, because two Resonants didn’t have to worry about injury one another while they were in sync, and therefore Lucius didn’t have to be conscious of sustaining damage to his person during a duel.  But soon Severus realized just what Lucius was playing at and swore out loud. 

Lucius smirked and continued to rain spells across the distance between them, distracting Severus from the task of keeping their cores on the same wavelength.  After all, he’d promised to show Harry and his son that you _could_ perform spells despite the effects of being a Resonant. 

It was obvious that things were going subtly wrong.  Both Harry and Draco (mostly Harry) were used to watching their Potions professor for any tic or shift in his manner that might indicate incoming detention, and therefore were attuned enough to his demeanor to notice him tensing now.  They were faint signs – a hardening of his face, a flashing of his dark eyes – but the way he was throwing spells had shifted subtly, too, until it became apparent that he was _actually fighting_.  He wasn’t depending on the bubble of nullification around him, but instead trying to deflect Lucius’s spells with his own. 

Lucius, for his part, seemed in his element, his grin spreading as it became clear that he was enjoying himself immensely.  Not a lot of people ever put Severus Snape on the back foot, and even Lucius hadn’t had the pleasure of doing that in awhile.  So, with a low chuckle that rolled across the distance between then, he impressed everyone with a spell that he had actually made himself. 

It funneled right through a gap in Severus’s barrage of spells and likewise wasn’t dampened at all by the frequency of Severus’s core, because Lucius had also torn himself out of sinc with his ex-Resonant.  Two vibrations could cancel each other out, but just a little change could undo that.

The spell actually went so perfectly to its target that everyone stood stunned as Severus was knocked back, keeping his footing but stumbling nearly to the back edge of the dueling platform.  Like an invisible fist or heavy pocket of air, the spell had propelled itself through the air to impact with crushing force on Severus’s left shoulder.  Draco and Harry actually both flinched in tandem as they heard the impact of spell on muscle and bone, and Severus was spun so that he stood side-long to Lucius. 

As for Lucius, the man had dropped his wand to his side, looking stunned as well and more than a little appalled with himself. 

There was silence as the last spells died out and no further spell-fire was renewed.  Severus was breathing fast either from the exertion of repelling Lucius’s mad volley or from containing pain, and although he refused to fall, he trembled.  Harry and Draco had never seen their professor so weakened, but Snape refused to lose his composure entirely. 

Just as Lucius opened his mouth to say something, Severus drew in a deep breath and turned, straightening and facing forward again, face stern and as cranky as ever.  “If everyone would kindly stop gawking, I’d like to point out that I’m neither bleeding nor dead, and even if I were bleeding, the outcome would still not be necessarily worthy of the various levels of shock on your faces.  Potter!”

“Yes!” Harry squawked, literally jumping. 

“Scrape your jaw off the floor and then do the same for Draco.”

“Yes, professor,” Harry actually said, making and effort to close his jaw even as Draco did the same with an audible _click_ of his teeth. 

“I think that this lesson is over for today,” Lucius said calmingly.  He’d been quick to regain his composure, and now his face showed nothing of what he thought about all of this: his own behavior and Severus’s physical condition.  Back was the faintly lazy, distractedly amused, aristocratic mask.  “Off you go, boys.”

Still rather gobsmacked, Draco and Harry just nodded, odd reflections of each other – one with tousled brown hair like a rat’s nest on his head, the other with straight, fine blonde hair.  As they turned to leave, Severus called out, however. 

“Potter, wait out in the hall for me.  I have something to discuss with you.”

Although that was probably a pretty terrifying thing to look forward to, Harry just nodded again.  “Uh, yeah.  Sure, professor.”  Then he and Draco were leaving, and it was just possible to hear Draco grumbling that he’d have to be there, too, since he couldn’t very well go trooping off anywhere on his own.  Harry took the complaints without a twitch, pointing out that Draco didn’t have anywhere to be anyway.  The two got along remarkably well when Harry just put his mind to ignoring the annoying facets of Draco’s personality. 

Leaving Lucius and Severus to get down off the platform, Severus still looking like a storm-cloud – which was actually a relief, because that was normal for him.  Lucius was back to smirking his faint, crooked smirk that never reached his eyes, part of the mask he so often wore.  “You weren’t quite ready for that, were you, Severus?”

“For you acting like an over-eager first-year with more magic than sense?” Severus replied scathingly and dryly, “Is that what you’re asking?  Because I believe I pointed out to the children that dueling isn’t something done for the purpose of _fun_.”

“And I politely disagree,” Lucius shrugged, coming off the platform to stand on the ground and wait for Severus to descend as well.  “Duels can be very fun.”

“You’re a prat, Lucius,” Severus gave up and sighed.  He walked smoothly as always, appearing for all intents and purposes uninjured by the magical battering he’d taken. 

Insuppressible, Lucius snorted back, his smile coiling up further before he turned and left ahead of Severus.  As commanded, both boys waited just outside, and Lucius beckoned his son to fall into step with him.  When it became apparent that Severus and Harry were likewise going to walk along, too, Draco went, and soon there was the pleasant background chatter of Lucius warmly congratulating his son on his stellar spell-work and speed. 

Harry couldn’t help but jump a bit as Severus came up like a large shadow beside him, and twitched his wand to easily lift a privacy-spell.  Instantly, Harry felt his ears pop, and he opened his jaw reflexively to relieve the sudden, uncomfortable pressure.  He could still hear everything, but his sense of magic told him that there was a shield around them keeping noise from getting out.  Well, at least there was one secret he hadn’t given away to Professor Snape: Harry being a Sensitive was still firmly in the realm of unknown.  Although, honestly, by this point, Harry was having a hard time remembering who knew what, and whom he still had to keep secrets from…  Just thinking that made him feel immensely drained, and he sighed. 

“Tired, Potter?” came Snape’s voice, demeaning as always but somehow lacking some of its customary bite.  The man was just walking along, arms at his sides and eyes forward, perhaps favoring his left side lightly.  Harry just shook his head, and was glad – and a little surprised – when the harsh Potions Master didn’t pursue the matter for the sake of arguing.  Instead, Snape’s tone changed, becoming softer and more somber, and he said, “I’d like to talk to you about Draco and about the many secrets you are keeping.”

“I don’t want them to get out!” Harry immediately said, worrying his lip and taking a step away from Severus as he realized he’d answered too quickly and too forcefully – tipping his hand.  He pushed his glasses up on his nose and tried to cover his anxiety a little, “I mean, you said that it wouldn’t be wise to spread my secrets far and wide-”

“And I still stand by that notion,” Snape said immediately, flicking his wand again faintly to extend the shield around them now that Harry was walking further away from him, threatening to slip out from under it.  Snape didn’t have any way of knowing that Harry wouldn’t do that, because he could tell exactly where the audibility-shield ended.  “I can see a dozen ways in which the revelation of your secrets could be detrimental to you, and far fewer in which they could lead to anything _good_ ,” Snape clarified, lip curling in its customary fashion as if this were something so simple that he shouldn’t have to say it. 

Harry was surprised by the wording, however, and guilessly turned his ruffled head to look up at the normally-imposing Potions Master.  “You’re worried that it will be detrimental to _me_?” the boy found himself asking, transparently perplexed.

That got Snape to look at him, eyebrows lowering questioningly.  “Of course _you_ , brat.  Did you think that the revelation of your wandless skills would cause other students to have fits of apoplexy?”  Ignoring the fact that Potter didn’t seem to know what ‘apoplexy’ meant, Snape mused grudgingly, half to himself, “Although, your being a Parselmouth might unsettle those of lesser mental capacity.”  He said this in a way that indicated he was likely thinking of Gryffindors, but it was hard to tell – Professor Snape would call even Slytherins witless if he felt it was necessary. 

But Harry was still looking at him, that openly bemused look on his face, and Snape finally realized that the boy didn’t understand this worry for him. 

Snape’s eyes narrowed further.  He was already going off his chosen topic, but continued to detour, asking in a slow drawl, “Is it so surprising that someone might be worried about you, Potter?  Or is it just that it is _me_ saying it?”

“No, it’s not just you,” Harry said, blinking behind his ridiculous glasses and swiping his hair back absently from his forehead, fleetingly revealing the little scar upon his skin that made Severus shiver involuntarily.  “I…uh…guess I’m just not used to it.  What did you want to talk to me about again?”

“Typical Gryffindor, so easily distracted,” was Snape’s knee-jerk response, but again it wasn’t as biting as usual.  He stashed away Harry’s earlier response to his concern for later contemplation.  “I wanted to ask you how you felt about Draco knowing your secrets.”

He waited, as the Potter boy seemed to be thinking.  The boy was so much smaller than most boys his age, and normal boys were already shorter than Snape, so the professor found himself more or less looking down at the top of that unkempt head of brown hair.  “You’re talking about making Draco swear on his magic not to talk about my secrets,” Harry guessed, voice quiet serious for one his age. 

“Yes,” Snape admitted.  “Because Malfoys are a disturbingly tightly-knit lot at times-”  ‘ _Discounting Narcissa_ ,’ he thought acidly, but tactfully didn’t say out loud.  “-And you should realize that there is a distinct possibility of Draco telling his father that you are both a Parselmouth and adept at wandless, unless he’s ensorcelled into silence.”  Again, Severus fell into silence, waiting to see how the Potter boy would react.  It wasn’t in Snape’s nature to take the word of adolescent students, but if he were being truthful with himself, he was just dragging his heels in any way he could to postpone the need to make a decision himself.  He truly did not want to force Draco under a spell of silence.  When Harry didn’t respond for a long time, Severus finally pressed sharply, “Well, what do you think, Potter?” 

Harry jumped, a now-familiar reaction to his name being said, although Snape still didn’t understand the response any more than he understood the bespectacled boy’s confusion at being worried over.  “Err…well, if it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d rather you didn’t spell Draco to silence.  See, we already have a hard enough time getting a long, so…”

“You’re worried about the opinion of your peer?” Snape sneered lightly, thinking he understood. 

Harry bridled a little, his green eyes so sharp and in that moment so like Lily when she’d been defending someone…defending Severus.  “Yes, partly, but what I’m trying to say is that if Draco and I are going to be stuck with each other for who-knows-how-long, we should probably start it by trusting one another, not getting one magically gagged!”

Startled by the outburst, Severus just stared at him as they stopped walking.  Draco and Lucius kept walking until Draco suddenly twitched, stiffening as if hearing something and then turning around, noticing that the other boy had stopped.  The younger Malfoy cocked his pale head, shooting Harry a ‘ _What now_?’ look. 

Harry’s face remained serious, and he looked bravely up at the tall Potions Master, saying in a quiet, determined voice, “I’ll try to talk to him, okay?  If he’ll keep my secret, then you won’t need to assure his silence with magic.”

“And if he won’t, Potter?  Then a very dangerous wizard with a questionable past and loyalties will know quite a lot about you,” Severus asked back.

That didn’t phase the Potter boy, who simply asked back with a tilted eyebrow, “I already have a very dangerous wizard with a questionable past and loyalties who knows a lot about me.  Should I worry?”

Severus was struck silent as Harry turned away from him and kept walking, stepping through the privacy spell and trotting up to Draco but keeping on the far side of the other small boy from Lucius.  For his part, Lucius merely looked from Draco to Severus, eyes amused but otherwise unreadable.  The three began talking, presumably about dueling, Harry once again blinking and looking surprised whenever his name was said, answering without an ounce of cunning to each question but somehow never being outmaneuvered by Lucius’s careful words.  Severus dropped the privacy spell and walked after them, acutely feeling the damage done to his shoulder by Lucius’s spell and acutely feeling that he’d judged Potter wrongly. 

Potter, who had hair like James and eyes like Lily, but who acted somehow different form either. 

In the end, Severus peeled away from the group first (having ordered the boys to return to the dormitories without delay), needing some time with his thoughts before returning to his quarters for the night. 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look forward to some Severus and Lucius time in the next chapter! Lucius has to apologize for wrecking Sev's shoulder...
> 
> If anyone has anything they'd like to see in this plot, shoot me a comment! This chapter was posted so late because I was struck by writer's block, and comments with suggestions often help me with that :)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus and Lucius have an unexpected chat over Severus's injury - and then Draco and Harry likewise have a nice chat.
> 
> And then a Troll comes into the picture...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't ship Severus and Lucius...you'll probably have precious little interest in the first part of this chapter. But hopefully you're okay with those two, because it was fun to finally right some feelz between those two ;) 
> 
> So: Severus has feelz and doesn't know what to do with them. Lucius doesn't notice those feelz...or else he does, and it just being a jerk. You decide ;) I'll stop typing before I spoil anything...

~^~

Severus had walked around the deserted halls of Hogwarts until after curfew (perhaps not entirely deserted: he caught two Ravenclaw would-be-lovebirds out, and gave them detention almost before they knew they’d been caught out so late) before finally giving in to the fact that his shoulder hurt too much to ignore.  Although the Potions Master was hiding it well, the blast he’d taken had definitely hurt, even if he’d been truthful every time he’d assured everyone that he was all right – after all, the spell Lucius had shot had neither been intended to kill him, nor had it succeeded.

It had just packed a punch reminiscent of a troll. 

Shoulder throbbing insistently, Severus entered his quarters, waiting until he’d passed the sitting room and gone on to his bedroom before slipping out of his robes.  He hissed as he contorted his left shoulder to do so, but pushed on through the pain until he was standing in simple dark slacks and an equally simple white button-down shirt.  Sitting in a chair at the foot of his bed, he began to undo the buttons one-handed – and easy enough task, while he kept his left arm and hand still to avoid more discomfort.  He was quietly cursing Lucius under his breath for being so unhealthily good at spells and so stubborn at getting them past his defenses. 

Right about then was when he felt a tremor through his wards that served much like the wizarding equivalent to a Muggle doorbell: someone was at his door.  He snorted, because he definitely didn’t intend to answer. 

The ripples that began to come back through his wards informed Snape that this was a particularly persistent visitor, so when he couldn’t take the distraction any longer, the Potions Master dropped both of his hands grouchily to his knees before grabbing his wand (always nearby) and negating the wards.  As he heard the distant outer door open, he called out testily, “Wait in the sitting room.  I’ll be out shortly, if your impatience will allow you to delay that long.”  Still muttering under his breath about the bad timing of visitors (honestly, Snape disliked most all visitors – so they all had bad timing), the dark-haired man went back to unbuttoning his shirt to better check the damage Lucius had done. 

It wasn’t until he’d gotten enough buttons undone to hastily shove the material off his left shoulder that Severus recognized his visitor as none other than Lucius Malfoy.  The man’s familiar magic easily pushed past the lesser (and, to be truthful, dormant until Snape went to sleep) wards and right into Lucius’s room without bothering to knock.  Only the familiar vibration of Lucius’s innate magic kept Severus from reacting defensively and turning around to attack. 

“Your manners leave something to be desired, Lucius, if you come barging into people’s quarters like this all the time,” Severus felt the need to inform his old friend as he pulled the material of his shirt swiftly back up over his shoulder.  It did well to hide weaknesses from Malfoys, just as it was a good idea to hide surprise when they unexpectedly traipsed into your bedroom. 

But Lucius looked as relaxed as if this was a foyer in his own house, and easily waked around in front of Severus to stand against one of the tall bedposts, leaning against it with the innate grace of a Pureblood aristocrat.  He lacked his customary cane, but still managed to look put-together and elegant as he settled into his relaxed pose.  The little smile playing at the edges of his lips said that Severus’s attempts to hide his surprise at the visit were not entirely successful.  “Oh, I don’t barge in on just anyone,” he threw back blithely, still smirking, “Just old friends.  And you can’t really be lecturing me on manners when yours are so terrible, Severus.”

“I do no believe that ordering someone to wait in the waiting room is an example of terrible manners,” Severus was quick to point out in his turn as he moved to begin buttoning up his shirt again, but made the mistake of going about it with the help of his left hand.  Almost immediately, the abused muscles of his left shoulder protested, and the stoic Potions Master let out a rather unprofessional (but at least quiet) snarl as he dropped his hand and went back to just using his right.  Whatever Lucius had come in to say had better be good…!

“Here, let me look at that, Severus,” Lucius’s smooth interjection surprised the other man, who looked up at the pale-haired aristocrat with obvious, dubious caution on his features.  Seeing the look, Lucius laughed, “Come now, Severus, if I weren’t at least a little bit concerned and repentant over that blow I dealt you, I wouldn’t be much of a friend now, would I?”

“I’ll believe that imbecile Hagrid can sing opera before I believe you concerned,” Severus snorted back.

That didn’t engender any anger, merely an accepting shrug from Lucius.  “Fine.  If you don’t believe me concerned, at least believe me apologetic.  That’s why I came by, after all – now let me see the work I did.”

After a moment of Severus pausing uncertainly with his right hand hovering over a button in the middle of his sternum, Lucius grew impatient and came forward with a huff.  “You’re impossible, Severus.  Did you know I was fool enough to consider checking the infirmary before looking for you here?”

This ‘concerned’ side of Lucius was not entirely unprecedented: Severus happened to know that Lucius could be perfectly concerned for others when it suited him, and that this happened more around friends and family.  However, with Snape’s mind still a jumble of secrets that he was _keeping_ from Lucius in regards to one Harry Potter, this sudden friendliness was just a tad discomfiting.  Lucius’s effortless charm was just a bit hard for most people to resist, and Severus knew that he was not exempt from the category of ‘most people’.  He still managed to sneer, “There was clearly no need to go to the infirmary.  I am neither infirm nor so delicate that a spell like that would render me in need of medical care.”

Lucius just started up a low laugh, amused by the familiar, biting complaints.  “Will you let me see, Severus?” he nevertheless asked, standing in front of the his old friend now, showing a open-palmed hand in a brief gesture of supplication, and the humor faded to more sincere gravity, “I truly am apologetic, and realize that I perhaps pushed things a little bit far by working a spell like that through your defenses.”

The wise thing to do or say would have been to make it snidely clear that Lucius’s attack was not really so impressive as to warrant much merit, and that there was no need for him to go poking around just to see the fruits (i.e., bruises) of his labor.  Severus already had the unsettling and familiar feeling that the more he talked, the more opportunities there would be for him to verbally slip-up and say something he didn’t mean to – it was the omnipresent fear of a spy like himself.  It always seemed that Lucius had a nose for secrets, just like now, where he were sniffing around as if he was somehow aware of the tantalizing secrets buried shallowly at the back of Severus’s throat.

And, of course, in the time that Severus took to think all of this, Lucius was back to smiling his self-assured smile again, and reached forward to replace Severus’s hand at his buttons.  “Here, let me.  I made that spell, so I happen to know to what degree it bruises.”

“So lying to you about it and saying that I’m fine would be useless,” Snape deadpanned as he slowly allowed his hands to both rest on the arms of his chair.  His dark eyes watched Lucius carefully as he otherwise gave in to the mothering. 

Lucius tilted his head and noticed Severus’s suspicious, careful look, and met it with a smile – not in the least offended.  After all, Lucius knew enough about Snape and enough about himself to know that a cagy look like that was entirely warranted.  Maybe the elder Malfoy was even a bit proud of it.  If nothing else, his smooth certainty never wavered as he unbuttoned Severus’s shirt down to where it was tucked into his trousers as if this were something he did every day.  At that point, Severus roused himself enough to help, once again shrugging his left shoulder free of the material.  This time, his other shoulder followed, until his shirt was pooled against the back of the chair and he was sitting with the air on his bare skin, looking at Lucius quite frankly.  With the exception of the bruise, the Potions Master was well aware that he had nothing to be ashamed of; his frame was fit and lean, as if the constant energy of his temper burned off any fat that might have dared to take up residence beneath his pale skin. 

The bruise, however, was quite spectacular, and Lucius had the good graces to both wince and chuckle when he got a look at it.  “I will have to have a congratulatory drink to myself later; I outdid myself when I made that spell,” he commented as he leaned close to get a look at it.

Severus was growing a touch distracted by the wafts of warm breath cascading intermittently across his bare shoulder, and wondered if this was entirely a good idea.  “You’ll pardon me for being less enthusiastic,” he intoned in return to keep up appearances of being laconic and calm.  “I appreciate your talent for spell-making far more when it’s directed at other people.”

“How about this, then, Severus,” Lucius offered, straightening and touching a hand to his wand but being careful not to draw it, “I’ll heal it and make it up to you, hmm?”  When Severus just blinked, a little surprised, Lucius snorted out a brief chuckle.  “If only to keep you from lecturing me on it for eternity.”

“I can do it my-”

“Healing spells work best when performed by someone else,” Lucius quite easily interjected, but what made Severus scowl was that he was also perfectly correct.  Severus had, in fact, very much _not_ been looking forward to performing a healing spell on himself, because it would most likely be a lot of effort for very little result.  And he didn’t fancy taking a potion to speed along the healing process, either, because he didn’t care for the taste of his potions anymore than anyone else did. 

So he finally sighed, refusing to admit to himself how much he secretly liked the offer Lucius was giving him.  The tall Potions Master sat back in his seat, for all appearances calm and relaxed even though his onyx eyes never lost their keen attentiveness. “Fine.  As far as apologies go, it would be apt.”

Lucius’s smile spread like a cat stretching out in a beam of sun, and he now slipped his wand free into his hand, having gained permission.  Severus knew that Lucius was not a man who asked permission for many things, but drawing a wand on a fellow Deatheater was something only done with caution, even by men like Lucius.  It was a measure of how much he respected Severus’s dangerousness that Lucius made his intentions very clear before pointing a wand at him, however benevolently. 

The tip of Lucius’s wand just touched Severus’s skin, right over where it was angry and mottled with shades of red and purple and every conceivable hue in between.  The dark-haired man grunted at the discomfort of even that slight touch, and turned his head away to ignore it, but then froze carefully and slanted his eyes back when he felt Lucius’s other hand fall on his skin as well.  The touch was light and absentminded, an unconscious effort to keep Severus from fidgeting, and the aristocrat's fine, long fingers were warm and impossible to ignore.  Being a stubborn man himself, Severus locked his eyes on the far wall, determined to do just that: ignore Lucius and his accursed charm and dexterous, warm hand.  Severus pictured Lucius and Narcissa together with a vengeance to clear his head, but somehow, that didn’t clear it much at all – although it did transmute some of his more troublesome feelings into anger instead. 

The healing spell was, like everything Lucius did, rather intricate.  Very few wizards ever gained any skill at spell-making without getting themselves blown up or turned into a slug first, but Lucius’s dabbling was always quite successful – right now, he was showing that he was capable of both destruction and its opposite, as he voiced a spell that Severus had never heard before.  The waves of heat that sank into his battered muscles were clearly of a healing variety, however, and so blessedly wonderful as they took the pain away that Severus felt his eyes flutter reflexively closed as he sighed. 

Under Lucius’s wand and fingertips, the bruising was retracting, the ugly mottled color disappearing even as the more serious deep-tissue damage began to mend itself with studious precision. 

“Remind me to have Madame Pomfrey speak to you about that spell,” Severus said by way of thanks as Lucius finally stepped back, the spell completed and Severus’s shoulder in far better condition than it had been.  The elder Malfoy had explained as he put his wand away that the damage was not completely undone (that was neither feasible nor necessary in the cases of most healing anyway), but the improvement was drastic and much appreciated. 

Lucius just hummed a noncommittal sound of maybe-agreement (another Malfoy habit: never doing as told if they could help it) as Severus slipped his shirt back on.  Then, he asked suddenly, as pleasantly as if asking about the weather, “Would you like to go out to a late dinner with me?”

Snape actually jumped, staring up at his friend before beginning to button up his shirt with more determination than before.  “More apologies, Lucius?  You didn’t hit me that hard,” he retorted to hide the unfamiliar and unbecoming tangle that his brain had suddenly become.  Lucius was his best friend, after all, and married, but somehow Severus’s emotions weren’t quite making that distinction…

“Oh, the healing wasn’t an apology,” Lucius cunning waved that away, explaining, “I said I’d heal the damage _and_ make it up to you.  In that order.”  His smile was catlike, as he clearly realized that he’d flustered and tricked Severus; in return, Severus glared (and also felt his fingers simultaneously slip on the last button).  Lucius finally put away his smugness when he saw the corresponding mulishness settling onto Snape’s features.  “Can’t a fellow ask his best friend out to join him for a meal?” he asked in smiling exasperation. 

Severus found that his heart-rate slowed considerably when Lucius said ‘friend’ instead of anything…less formal…but while he grew less embarrassed by his own reactions and more relaxed by the reminder of friendship, part of him was…disappointed.  He shoved that part quickly into a closet and put a mop-bucket on its foolish head, knowing that even being _friends_ with Lucius Malfoy was a dangerous game.  Potter’s secrets were too fresh in his mind, and all too liable to slip out if Lucius began pushing. 

But Lucius didn’t know that there was anything to push _for_ , Severus reminded himself, and before he knew it, he was nodding.  “Fine.  If you must settle your conscience.  You’re buying, though.”

“Of course.  What kind of man would I be if I didn’t?”

Looking at Lucius’s too-charming smile, reflecting in his too-sly eyes, Severus wondered what he’d just gotten himself into.  With a sigh, he pulled his robes back up over his shoulders and made sure his wand was within easy reach.  With Lucius Malfoy, one never knew. 

Of course, he was saved by the actual trouble of figuring out what to do on a friend-dinner by the Troll that got into Hogwarts.

~^~

Draco quite unrepentantly dominated the conversation on the way back to the Slytherin dormitories, his mood elevated by the approval of his father and the revelation that he was not a failure at magic – merely encumbered by magical resonance.  Harry, of course, ignored the haughty tones and what other students would probably call ‘preening’ and ‘prancing’ from the pale-haired Slytherin, deep in thought instead.  He was thinking over his conversation with Snape. 

“Hey, Potter,” Draco stopped to slant an eye and elbow the other boy.  Harry’s eyes immediately flicked up.  “People will think you’ve gone mute.  Don’t you have anything to say about the duel?”

“Uh…”  As usual, Harry took a minute to catch up with the fact that he was being address, causing Draco to roll his eyes and stop walking.  Still, Draco was in a much friendlier mood than usual, so Harry recovered quickly and blurted, “I have to ask you something.”

Draco’s silver eyes narrowed, one pale brow lifting like a wing.  “Well, get on with it, Potter.  We haven’t got all night.  If we stay out, someone will report us out after curfew.” 

“I know, I know…” the Boy Who Lived sighed, rubbing his hand back and forth over his head until his hair stood up like a windy wheat field.  He glanced anxiously about but – being a Gryffindor – he soon gathered his courage.  “You know how…well, how you know, and Snape knows, that I can do…you know.”

“No, Potter, I do not know,” Draco decided to be purposefully obtuse. 

“Now, Draco, don’t make this difficult for Mr. Potter,” came a voice from above them, and both small boys turned to look up at the painting hanging over them.  It was a painting of an old wizardly couple, simply called ‘Yellow and Blue,’ because the husband was painted in blue tones while his wife was somehow painted entirely out of yellow hues and shades.  Draco generally called the wife ‘Amarillo’ and the husband ‘Cobalt’.  Or Amari and Balt for short, and the two had adored the names almost as much as they had been delighted to be given names at all by a young child.  Right now, Amari was talking, her pale cream face with its delicate golden wrinkles showing both understanding and gentle censure, “It’s not easy to talk about important things, especially if your friends make it harder.”

While Draco was narrowing his eyes and battling a bit with the idea of ‘friend,’ Harry just stared at the painting.  For starters, it had taken him a long time to get used to the fact that magical paintings _talked_ – he’d been unaware of the wizarding world for so much of his life that every little thing left him flabbergasted.  At the moment, however, he was not shocked: he was, instead, a teensy bit frightened, because he’d just remembered that the walls literally had ears and were listening to his conversation. 

And his secrets.

Balt looked down, easily sensing what had the bespectacled Gryffindor so uneasy.  Stroking his long, smoky-blue beard, the kindly old wizard said in a soft, gentle voice, “It’s all right, Potter my boy.  We paintings have known for some time now that you are uniquely gifted among your peers.”  Harry’s eyes, by now, had widened quite alarmingly, but the painting merely went on in a calming tone, “Despite having known about many of your abilities, Harry, we haven’t said anything.  We paintings may talk, but we don’t _chat_ so much as most people think.”

“It’s okay, Potter,” Draco cut in.  For a change, the young Pureblood actually sounded considerate instead of arrogant.  He was looking at Harry’s face, and the emotions that were flickering across it and verging on the delicate edge of fear: Potter was truly _afraid_ that his secrets would get out.  Draco didn’t know why, but he could understand a little bit.  And, despite popular opinion, he was not a complete git.  “The paintings won’t go around telling people things if you don’t want them to – just ask them nicely, and they’ll keep your secrets,” he said with complete confidence. 

Harry was a little bit surprised with the ease of relation between Draco and the painting, because the denizens of ‘Yellow and Blue’ were nodded between casting fond looks at Draco.  Still uneasy, Harry looked between everyone as well, brows beetling.  “I’d…”  He cleared his throat and started over, feeling odd talking to the painting, even if it could talk back.  His voice still felt small.  “I’d rather if you kept this a secret – my wandless and Parselftongue, I mean.  Thanks for not telling anyone so far.”

“No need to thank us, Mr. Potter,” Amarillo said easily with a broad smile.  She was a depiction of a rather old witch, but was still beautiful when she smiled.  “And it is no trial at all to keep your secrets.  Although I doubt that the reactions of your teachers and fellows will be as bad as you fear.”

“Oh, having Uncle Vernon’s reaction was bad enough,” Harry grumbled just barely loud enough for Draco to hear.  The Slytherin’s eyes narrowed. 

“So, what do you want to say, Potter?  Is this about me not gossiping about your tricks, too?”  Draco’s mouth twisted into a look of distaste that imperfectly hid his nervousness as he glanced away.  “Snape already promised to handle that one for you.  I won’t be able to blab even if I wanted to after he’s done,” Draco groused.

“That’s just the thing, Draco,” Harry surprised him, “I…er…told him not to.”  While Draco’s eyes widened (a reflection of Harry’s reaction, causing the painted wizarding couple to chuckle delicately behind their painted hands), Harry finished with a shrug of his narrow shoulders, “I told Professor Snape that I’d talk to you, and that either you’d keep my secret…or…well, I’d live with the consequences, I guess.”

“You really are willing to live with the consequences of me telling my father?” Draco choked out.  “Who are you and what have you done with Harry Potter?  You don’t even trust Dumbledore.”

Harry’s eyes darkened unexpectedly, his usually kind features turning into something dangerous.  It was a sudden change, and startling when seen on the visage of a boy as young as Harry was.  “Your dad and Dumbledore are two different people, and I don’t have reason to distrust your father yet,” Harry said stalwartly and unhesitantly, looking like a dragon coiled up in boy’s skin.  “But, all the same, I’d rather you didn’t tell you dad, yeah?”

By this point, looking at the Avada Kedavra-colored green of Harry’s eyes, Draco would have agreed to just about anything.  “Uh-huh.  I can’t see how that will be a problem.  I kept this whole Magicseal business a secret from my father, after all, so keeping your snake-talking hushed should be easy.”

Abruptly, Harry’s temperament changed: it was as if he couldn’t hold onto the temper for a very long, or didn’t care to.  The hardness left his eyes to be replaced by curiosity, and his head tilted.  Draco expected the questioned extensively about why in the world Draco hadn’t told his father (or at least adult) about the extensive bullying – most people asked, not understanding the deep, Malfoy need to maintain one’s pride that Draco had felt.  Merlin knew the paintings had tried long and hard to talk sense into Draco about such matters, and even now, Amarillo and Cobalt were shaking their heads. 

But Harry didn’t ask.  Instead, he just nodded, as if this ultimately made sense.  Suddenly Draco remembered Harry’s reflexive comment about his Uncle Vernon, said in such resentful tones, and wondered what kind of household would build a boy who didn’t think to tell adults about his troubles. 

And who in fact actively distrusted most of them.

On impulse, Draco found himself saying, “You know, you can trust Severus.  That may sound crazy, because he can be a right old git-”

He was cut off by the hallway suddenly becoming flushed with noise – the paintings (not only ‘Yellow and Blue’ but all of the paintings in the area) were all stiffening and exclaiming.  A cry was traveling down them in a wave, passed from painting to painting until a boy painted with ridiculously gaudy clothing and runny watercolor paints skidded to a halt in the ‘Yellow and Blue’ painting).  “A…A Troll!  A Troll has been sighted in the dungeons!”

“Draco – Harry!” Cobalt immediately said, looking both older and younger as he stood up and moved as close to the boys as his painted would allow: he moved more smoothly than an old person, but tension made his face ancient.  “Quickly – back to your dorms!  No questions, just move!”

“This way!” a painting down the way called. 

Harry and Draco’s hearts were thumping, but Draco at least was used to responding to the paintings without thinking.  He grabbed Harry’s sleeve hard and yanked him into a run.  “Come on, Potter!  Unless you fancy being eaten by a Troll!”  The two took off running, directed by paintings that looked more and more frantic by the minute. 

Because the Troll was on the move, and likely to intercept the two boys before they could make it to the safety of the dormitories. 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't EVER expect me to follow canon - but I'm doing it a little bit, with the Troll. Obviously, the exact timing has been tweaked to suit my needs. Hopefully the next chapter will be exciting!!! 
> 
> Poor Sev...no date with Lucius


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not only has a Troll be released into Hogwarts, but the perpetrator has also put a hex on school itself - doors are now locking of their own accord, making it very difficult for two particular students to get to safety...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note: my Troll is significantly tougher than the one in canon. Simply dropping something on its head would not be enough to knock it unconscious...hence the need for more drastic measures.

~^~

The paintings continued to tell them which way to go, and Harry understood perfectly now how Draco had managed to coordinate a magical school while his own magic was strangled under the Magicseal – the paintings even guided them along the magical stairs when they went that way.  Logically, they should have made it to the safety of the Slytherin dormitories in record time, and without ever seeing the Troll.

But logic came second to malignant interference.

Harry reached the door first, which would take them to the hall they needed to then reach the dorms.  At the speed he was moving, he more or less hit the door, but then growled when it didn’t give for the first time in remember history.  It was stuck fast.  What surprised Draco even more, however, was to hear the name, “Quirrell!” imbedded in the growl.  Harry’s eyes were bright with anger that overroad the fear.  In a flash, Draco remembered Harry mentioning his sense for magic – he just hadn’t realized how specific that sense was, and now wasn’t the time to ask. 

At least the bony young Gryffindor boy saw fit to explain when they turned down another corridor and found a _second_ unexpectedly immovable door.  “There’s magic closing the doors,” Harry said, eyes darting around as he visibly tried to think his way around this.  Both of them were breathing fast from more than just running.  “Are the professors doing this?  To try and keep the Troll penned in?” he asked Draco rather desperately.

It was the nearest painting who answered:  “Not likely, laddie – they’re having just as much a time of it as you are.”

“Yes, only they’ve got more practice with door-opening spells,” Draco quipped even as he tugged at the other boy’s sleeve, urging him away from the door.  “Come on.  Whoever’s locking the doors-”  ‘ _Possibly Quirrell, although the man hardly looks like he could hex a barn at thirty paces_.  “-Has shut away most of the profs, and shut _in_ both of us with a Troll.  I like my chances on the run more than standing still.” 

Harry didn’t need any more urging.  Draco remembered that Harry was presently a Seeker despite his young age, and it showed now, as the dark-haired boy moved swiftly and deftly, Draco moving along in his wake like a silver fish.  The paintings were all shouting, running from frame to frame until it would be a miracle if they all got back to the right places.  Draco and Harry lost track of the times they skidded to a halt and turned completely around as one of the paintings came panting into a frame in front of them to say they couldn’t go that way.  Apparently, the doors were not so much hexed to lock, but cursed to lock and unlock, generally to the benefit of the troll. 

When there was an angry, protective scream and then a smashing crash of glass and a wooden frame being shattered by a heavy fist.  The painting’s voice halted suddenly, and Draco – his blood suddenly afire with emotions he could barley name – turned around without thinking to charge to the painting’s defense.  He only stopped because Harry reflexively grabbed the back of his shirt and another painting near them commanded, “No, Draco!  Don’t worry about us – we’re not things to be killed as you living folk understand.”

“But that was Amarillo-!” Draco shouted, but Harry had a good hold on him, and was listening to the painting.  The Gryffindor’s jaw was clenched and his expression clearly showed fear, but he was more levelheaded than Draco right now. 

“Can we fight it?” Potter asked, voice filled with enough bravery to give Draco pause.  Of course, Draco neglected to realize that he himself had been prepared to charge down the hallway in the direction of a Troll.  Bravery was something that lurked in both of them. 

“No,” said the painting instantly, face stern but also wise.  “A full-grown wizard, in full command of their magic?  Yes.  And even that is dangerous, with the castle somehow turned against its denizens,” the painting huffed, turning acrylic eyes down the hall.  The glower of frustration was so strong on the painted denizen’s face that the boys feared the paint would chip.  “Now, please get moving!  It’s almost upon you!”

“Come on, Draco,” Harry gave an experimental tug at his sleeve again, “There’s nothing we can do.”

There was another smash, this time accompanied by a tearing of canvas.  With the troll so close that they could hear its grumbling growls, the paintings had gone from warning Draco and Harry to trying to distract the beast, yelling at it and shouting abuse from their frames.  In retaliation, the simpleminded Troll had now simply taken to smashing the noisy things.  It was slowing it down, but at great cost, and Draco felt his heart ripping in two.  “No!” she shouted, trying to scramble loose of Potter’s hold, “Don’t you _dare_ tell me there’s nothing I can do!  You don’t know…don’t know what these paintings…”  Tears were building in Draco’s eyes, turning them as reflectively silver as sad, pewter mirrors; he choked on his words as they caught in his throat, voice going from combative to a heartbroken .  “You don’t know what these paintings have done for me.  They…they kept me sane, during…”  He couldn’t finish, but he’d also stopped trying to pull away from Harry, instead standing disconsolately and bring his hand to where the front half of the Magicseal scar rested beneath his robes.  The painting that had been talking to them had fallen silent, moved by the silver-haired boy’s words. 

The troll was getting closer.  Its footsteps vibrated the floor. 

Before the painting could rouse itself to tell them to run again, Harry – who had been listening and looking down at the floor, expression very serious for one his age – asked steadily, “You said only an adult could handle a Troll?”

“Yes,” answer the painting immediately, “I know you boys have had a bit of Dueling practice, but you don’t have the power to hurt a Troll.  They’re magical creatures – it makes them slightly immune.”

“And the hex holding all of the doors closed?” Harry pressed.  His eyes were oddly determined, brows pulled down a bit over his emerald-bright eyes, making Draco watch him carefully.  True, they should have been running like…well, like a Troll was after them…but something about Harry’s odd, grim calm seemed to make everything else stand still a moment. 

At the moment, The Limping Shepherd came into the painting, looking out of place but still very familiar to Draco, who almost smiled despite himself.  “The Headmaster is working now to regain control of the castle, although your father and godfather, Draco, had teamed up to take a more direct route.”  Perhaps the Shepherd smiled a bit, a crooked tilting of his roughly-painted features.  “They’re taking down the doors.”

“But you two boys don’t have the _power_ to do that,” the painting’s original occupant reminded them worriedly while the Troll got closer, step by lumbering step. 

“Draco does,” Harry.  Everyone stared at him, Draco included, but only the Shepherd didn’t seem surprised.  Nothing flustered him, it seemed.  Harry had a look on his face that said he’d made up his mind about something, and it had the quality of making him look taller and stronger than just a lanky, undersized little kid with a bird’s-nest for hair.  “Draco, your magic is matured, remember?  That’s why you need me around.”

“And if you and I aren’t around each other, my magic gets free,” Draco realized, eyes widening as he grasped the plan.  As terrifying as that thought was, it was the only hope they had, especially if they wanted to make a stand now and help the paintings.  “That would at least give this bloody old Troll something to think about until Father and Severus get here!”

The Shepherd stepped in with unflappable logic, pointedly not denying the plan itself, “There are too many doors locked.  You can’t get far enough away from Draco for his magic to pull free.”

“I know,” Harry nodded, briefly chewing the inside of his cheek.  Then he surprised everyone – Shepherd included – by saying, “If I turn my magic off, though, it should work.”

“Turn your magic off…?”  Everyone began repeating, bewildered. 

“What are you going on about, Potter?” Draco demanded, “Have you lost your mind?  No one can turn their magic off.  That’s like saying you can stop your heart beating.”

“Okay, Draco, I don’t have time to explain,” Harry said in exasperation as the Troll let out a sound somewhere between a moan and a roar, and the paintings down the hall began trying even harder to distract the thing.  Harry was nearly dancing from foot-to-foot now with the need to do something – and, like a typical Gryffindor, action came before forethought most of the time.  “If I can do what I say I can, are you all right with it?  Magically losing it didn’t exactly look fun before.”

It hadn’t been.  It had felt a lot like being lit on fire and torn to pieces at the same time, with him at the center wrapped within a frail, glass wall that barely did anything to protect him from his own chaos.  But before anyone could remind him of this, Draco clenched his fists and glared.  “If you can do it, I can.  Just get on with it.”

Maybe the reason no one tried to stop this plan more forcefully was because, deep down, no one believed Harry could actually turn off his magic.  Draco was quite right: one could _not use_ magic, but turning it off was another thing entirely.  It was the difference between drawing the blinds in the morning and telling the sun to just not glow.  Magic was a flame ever flickering in a wizard’s center, and to shutter it completely was to smother it. 

Harry drew in a shaky breath and closed his eyes, and Draco felt an unfamiliar shudder at his core – like the vibrations of the Troll’s footfalls, but right behind his heart.  It was a gentle ripple, and it was _cold_.  Everything seemed suddenly a few degrees cooler, as if, indeed, someone was shutting off the sun.  Harry began wavering, breathing a little bit more sporadically, and Draco was shocked to feel his own magic shifting uneasily.  Then Harry took a deep breath, tilted his head back almost peacefully, and let it out in a slow, steady _whoosh_. 

Instantly, Draco felt an _absence_ so starkly that he nearly forgot about the Troll entirely. 

Draco had more or less gotten used to sensing Harry around him, either physically or subliminally in the form of those random itches between his shoulder-blades that always turned up when the Gryffindor was tense or angry.  Mostly, Draco had taken those little sensations for granted, simply getting used to having Harry around, for better or for worse.  Now, though, it felt as though he’d been leaning against a warm shoulder this whole time, only to have it abruptly ripped away.  He felt cold and…

And rapidly growing more unstable. 

Harry was leaning against the wall, eyes looking worn as they opened.  He was pale and unwell-looking – not unlike what he’d looked like when he’d first arrived at Hogwarts, actually – and his eyes were a disturbing frost-green, as if they’d lost coloration along with his skin.  Instead of emerald-green, they were literally white-green, and so obviously unhealthy that Draco forgot for a moment that tendrils of magic were starting to seep out of his own skin.  “Draco,” Harry said, helpfully tipping his head towards Draco’s hands. 

The Slytherin boy looked down, seeing how his magic was already overflowing the inadequate container of his skin.  Panic set in until he heard the Troll – almost around the corner now, finally giving up on silencing the paintings – then all Draco felt was determined, hot rage.  He turned around, a fragile figure that wouldn’t have intimidated much of anyone until they saw the wisps of magic like opalescent smoke beginning to rise off him.  It made his skin tingle and sting like a thousand tiny pins pricking it, and that pain would only get worse, he knew.  Draco swallowed thickly and clenched his teeth, determined not to let that fear take over him.  He thought of Severus, who’d stood and faced Lucius on the Dueling Platform and then purposefully lowered his wand, depending on bravery and Resonance to keep him whole.  Draco had only the former to depend on now, but he also didn’t plan on playing defense anymore or running away. 

‘ _No more running_.’  The thought swarmed through him like a gasp of air into collapsed lungs, and Draco couldn’t believe how good it felt.  Running was what he’d done with Crabbe and Goyle – running was all he could do besides submitting, and he’d refused to give in to their torments.  But running…running was a slower death.  And now, suddenly, he was done with it.  No. More.  Running. 

The Slytherin boy opened his mouth with a scream as his magic let loose entirely, no longer kept at bay by the magic of Harry Potter. 

Never had a Troll been more surprised to come around a corner.  It was truly massive, its beady eyes narrowing further as it caught sight of what it had initially scented to be possible food: there were still two small things in front of him, one smelling sickly and vulnerable as it slid down to sit against the wall, but between the weak one and the troll was a figure glowing like a blue-and-silver fire.  That fire was growing, highlighting a slight figure at its center that staggered forward. 

Without warning, the magic increased tenfold, the power of an adult wizard without an ounce of the control.  Draco cried out in agony again but also in fury, using one to combat the other as he thought about the paintings being torn up, their denizens possibly killed.  The magic around him went from blue to red and suddenly to a hideous black-green, it battered the hallways and forced the remaining paintings to flee their frames for the time being.  Harry went from sitting against the wall to curled up in a ball against it, gasping as magical flames skirted his small frame and just stopped short of biting his robes.  With a grunt of effort, Harry turned his attention inwards – on his own magic, basically lying in a coma, or like a lump of coal in his chest – and awoke just enough of his magic so that Draco’s power was turned aside.  For all intents and purposes, Harry’s magic was still ‘dead’ enough that Draco’s barely twitched, instead continuing its rampage.  While Harry just focused on breathing: in…out…in…out…he was at the bottom of a deep, dark pit and the sun had ceased to shine…

The Troll made a garbled noise of pain and surprise as tendrils of magic – as sleek and supple as silk ribbons, but as dangerous as razors – lashed about it, driven by nothing but a small boy’s rage.  The scars of the Magicseal were burning now, hot enough that Draco felt like he had a heated carving knife sawing right through him, but he knew he couldn’t stop now that he’d made the Troll angry.  Right now, stopping and begging Harry to turn his magic back on and make this stop would be the same thing as signing both of their death-wishes.  _Draco_ was the only weapon they had right now. 

The Troll was backing up, so Draco took a few shaky steps forward, panting harshly.  There was magic between his joints, under his fingernails, swirling in and out of his lungs with each breath, so intense that it could neither be described as heat or chill, pleasure or pain.  The magic roared like a storm, and even the Troll suddenly realized that it had stepped into a trap without realizing it.  The Troll’s small eyes still roved past the magical thing – the threat, the predator – to the more tender looking morsel collapsed behind it, but as soon as the Troll tried to somehow step around and get to better prey, the magical whirlwind became a conflagration – a firestorm. 

Burns and welts and boils erupted all over the Trolls flesh, the magic Draco was exuding still mostly uncontrolled but finding a vague focus in the form of the Troll.  Draco also had an innate desire to protect the paintings (and, to an extent, Harry), and that desire was like a wall of steel that controlled his magic where nothing else would.  It still licked around Harry and rattled the painting, but the worst of its destructive force held back. 

Which was good, because the only thing Harry knew that was harder than turning his magic off was waking it up only a little bit.  Like any other child, he’d gone through a stage when he’d tried to balance a light-switch perfectly between the ‘on’ and ‘off’ positions, only to find that that was nearly impossible…and that Uncle Vernon loudly disapproved of such a pastime.  Magic, Harry found, was remarkably similar, so when it became clear that Draco wouldn’t accidentally kill him, Harry jammed his internal switch firmly into the ‘off’ position and settled down to wait.  It was spectacular and terrifying to watch, as Draco’s magic threw shadows and light in equal proportions, chasing itself like a thousand specters across the walls, floor, and ceiling.  The wind it whipped up bit at Harry’s face, but he kept his eyes open, knowing that Draco would still need him to _stop_ this chaos eventually. 

Harry moaned at the thought of turning his magic back on.  That internal wrenching sensation was not something he looked forward to, although it would feel better than this aching lethargy that sat like a dead-weight on his chest.  _In_ his chest.  He wanted nothing more than to either turn his magic back on with one vicious jerk or just lie down and never wake up…

The Troll literally didn’t understand what was happening to it.  Had it ever had experience with acid or air-borne poison, maybe it would have had something similar to compare with the damage being done with every touch of Draco’s magic, but instead, all it knew was that the colored winds blasting around it burned when they touched and were doing more damage than an attack of mad wolves.  It stumbled backwards, tripping in its haste, and turned to run. 

All in all, with Draco’s magic unleashed, it took five minutes to send a full-grown Troll packing. 

By now, Draco was swaying and nearly unconscious.  The Magicseal scars were not only burning but _glowing_ , right through his robes in their sharp pattern, and Draco had ceased to feel pain anymore because his brain had short-circuited in that department.  “Harry…” he whimpered, and fell shakily to his knees. 

Harry couldn’t have heard him, but maybe he saw that the Troll was gone – and very unlikely to come back.  Gritting his teeth and slamming his eyes shut, Harry forced his magic back into wakefulness.  It came awake like a snake being prodded with a stick.  In the winter.  Slowly, groggily, and grumpily.  Potter groaned and pressed his forehead into the floor, still having no concept of getting up. 

Immediately, Draco sensed the Gryffindor’s magical presence again – more acutely now that he’d endured his absence.  The pain of his magic running rampant faded and finally buckled, and the storm of colors and power around him folded back inside of him.  As soon as it was docile, lulled by Harry’s magic in turn, Draco lay down flat on the floor and rolled over onto his back, panting with relief.  “Showed that Troll!” he said between breaths. 

There was no response from Harry except a mirror of Draco’s panting, and Draco felt his worry spike all over again.  Forgetting that he was usually an aloof little fellow – or at least that he was a Slytherin and not some emotional Hufflepuff – Draco pushed himself over onto shaky hands and knees to stare with naked alarm at where Harry was still limply on the floor.  “Potter!” he snapped, “Potter, say something!”  When Harry only twitched and groaned, Draco added in a weak attempt at a joke, “Even a cutting retort would be welcome at this point.”

“Draco, dear,” one of the paintings returned to the frame, having weathered Draco’s storm wherever it was that painted people went when they disappeared from view (hopefully those that had been attacked by the Troll were still hiding there), “Get Harry somewhere safe.  We’re already telling the professors what happened-”  Ironically, they were mostly telling Severus, who had swiftly gotten used to the fact that the paintings more-or-less babysat Draco Malfoy.  Snape was using the paintings almost as much as Draco was, both to locate the Troll and to locate the position of his godson and Potter.  “-So Madame Pomfrey will be with them to see to Potter, after what he did.”

“No!” Potter mewled.  Draco was surprised to note that he was now at Harry’s side, having crawled over to him without thinking.  Potter looked a mess: he was still pale, with color having returned to his cheekbones first, seemingly, making him look feverish instead of deathly.  Like a kitten pawing, he reached out and grabbed at Draco’s wrist weakly as he continued to reject the idea.  “No..don’…tell an’one.”  He was adamant, but clearly pretty out of it.  Draco found himself in the position, suddenly, of being the more sane and healthy of the two.  The realization was sobering, because he knew that it was his responsibility to get them both to someplace safe if the Troll miraculously recovered enough to try for round-two. 

“Potter, you’re being paranoid again,” Draco grumbled, mentally doing a check of himself to see just how badly his magical explosion had messed him up.  His chest and back felt blistered and burned, but he figured he could drag himself and Harry somewhere safe…  Draco’s head popped up, and he truly took in the hallway for the first time.  “We’re almost back where we started again, aren’t we?  How far to Snape’s office?” 

“Not far, but the doors…”  The painting stopped, considering.  “Actually, your magic might have destabilized the hex, if you’re lucky.  It certainly upset the magic of Hogwarts last time.” 

Draco was as much embarrassed by this reminder as he was secretly pleased, and he bent back down to Harry.  “Come on, you dolt, you have to get up!  I’m not sure how long a Troll’s memory is, or if it will come back.”  Very clearly, Draco remembered how the Troll had looked at Harry – in fact, it was one of the few clear memories he had beyond the simple recollection of magic and pain trying to rip him apart.  The Troll had sensed weakness and had wanted very much to go after it. 

Groaning again, Harry got his eyes open, and Draco winced to see that they were still disturbingly pale in coloration – although maybe not as bad as before.  It was still a strange and ugly color to see on Harry’s irises.  However, he proved that his magic was ‘on’ right then when some of the nearby paintings frames rattled as if hit by passing fingers.  The returning paintings squeaked in surprise. 

“So’ry,” Harry murmured breathily, getting his hands beneath him.  Draco acted on instinct, taking one of the other boy’s arms and dragging it over his shoulders before standing.  Both swayed, but both also made it to their feet, Draco hissing as his raw scars were aggravated.  The paintings rattled again. 

“Which way?” Draco asked, and immediately the paintings went to work outlining the swiftest path to Professor Snape’s office. 

~^~

They reached the office without further trouble, proving that Draco had, indeed, literally opened some doors for them.  Harry was more lucid by the time they reached Snape’s office door, but still exhausted and incredibly pale, his eyes just a smidge closer to their normal, verdant tones.  “Snape’s got paranoid wards,” he mumbled distractedly. 

“Yeah, well, you two make quite a pair then,” Draco snipped, using the hand not wrapped around Harry to open the door.  They would never have been able to get into Snape’s personal quarters, but his offices were open to the influx and exits of various disciplined youngsters.  The wards wouldn’t keep out students.  “You know, the paintings listened to you, and probably won’t tell Pomphrey that you’re sicker than a dying cat because you turned your magic off.  I still don’t see how you did that.”

Harry tiredly cleared his throat, having enough energy to trudge alongside Draco and talk a bit, but no more.  “I di’n’t…re’lize others couldn’t,” he said in a blurry tone. 

“Yeah, no one can turn their magic off, Potter.  It just isn’t done,” Draco said as he pushed the door open and walked into Snape’s office.  As he closed the door behind them, Harry’s pale eyes took in the room, and his magic flashed again.  This time, the results were rather alarming.  “Merlin…!” Draco swore quietly as the glass of Cerule’s tank – so recently replaced – suddenly disappeared entirely.  The serpent had already had its head lifted, and now cocked it questioningly as its flicking tongue ceased to come into contact with a solid surface.  Draco backed up until his back hit the door (which he was regretting closing), then collapsed entirely with a breathless cry of pain as agony spiked across his back.  He’d forgotten about how magic affected his healing scars.  By some miracle, Harry remained upright as his support disappeared. 

Draco’s world had narrowed to contain only spiky, red-hot lines on his back and the rasp of his own breathing when he heard the silken scrape of Parseltongue, coming out of Harry’s mouth like water.  It floated on the air above him.  Draco dug his fingertips into his knees to try and speed up the process of making the pain fade away, but he was still trying not to whimper when the Parseltongue faded suddenly to understandable English.  “Draco, come on.  Cerule understands why we’re here.”  Clumsy hands were fumbling at Draco’s arms, and pulled him upwards even though Harry didn’t have the strength to spare.  “You take the couch.”

Blinking past the tears that had filled his eyes – but hadn’t fallen, thanks to pure stubbornness – Draco saw the old couch shoved to one side of the room, and recalled that it was the only piece of furniture besides chairs that would let a body rest in Snape’s office.  “Where are you-?” he started to ask where Potter planned to collapse when his Gryffindor energy wore off and he remembered that he was a magical and physical wreck. 

But Harry had already pushed Draco to sit on the couch, and staggered off behind Snape’s desk.  Draco’s mouth went dry as he saw the tail-end of Cerule drop from the terrarium to the floor – also behind Snape’s desk – but when Draco leaned around to see more of the snake…he was surprised to see the massive blue serpent pooling its body carefully, shifting only slightly as a half-conscious Harry lowered himself down onto it.  This seemed to be the snake’s doing more than Harry’s (because Potter looked so out of it that he wouldn’t answer to his own name by this point), but like kitten curling up on a proffered blanket, the small, dark-haired boy melted into the nest of scaly coils.  Draco had never seen anything stranger, but at the same time, so touching. 

Feeling the effects of the day finally catching up to him, Draco decided that he and Harry couldn’t possibly be any safer, and relaxed onto his side on the couch.  So long as he wasn’t lying directly on his scars, the pain wasn’t enough to keep him awake for more than a few seconds.  Soon the room was filled with nothing but the deep, slow, even breathing of two boys and the occasional scaly rustle as Cerule shifted to ensure that Harry was most comfortable.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another secret of Harry Potter ;) I'll explain later, but I may as well tell you that Harry learned to turn off his magic because that was safest for him, living in a magic-less household. It made him sick and wasn't fun, but it was preferable to an angry Uncle Vernon...
> 
> Plus, you'll notice that the wandless magic that Harry used in the movies to release the snake at the zoo has come in handy now to release Cerule. I wuvs Cerule :3 And Cerule wuvs Harry. 
> 
> Anyway - no more spoilers for today. Next chapter you get to see how Snape reacts to his snake once again being loose in his office...


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath: Lucius and Severus get back to Draco and Harry (and Cerule, of course)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a lot of action in this one, but Severus gets a chance to come to terms with his parental Harry-feelz a bit more ;) And Cerule just gets more and more adorable (everyone so far has voted on that snake becoming a main character, so that's what's going to happen!)

~^~

“A Troll?!  Really?!” Lucius hissed viciously, sending off a spell that hit the closed door with a thud to rattle the walls.

Severus was right next to him while the rest of the professors just stood back, in various stages of fearful and impressed.  “I think that you should focus your attention on the way the doors are sealed,” Severus drawled in an impatient undertone, “Enchanting the castle like this would take far more work than slipping in one Troll.”  He felt a pressure against his side from the sheer, expanding weight of Lucius’s power, but then it dissipated and seemed to melt into and through him as his own core shifted its rhythm slightly, complementing it.  Severus’s own spells grew more powerful in response.  

The two of them hadn’t worked together like this in _years_.  The same power that made to Resonants nearly unable to throw spells at one another served to amplify each wizard’s abilities when they were working in tandem against an outside force.  Severus felt as if they were two storms that had crashed and then fused, two crackling cisterns of energy now mixing together until they became a thunderstorm only seen once in a lifetime. 

The door shuddered and when Lucius – sensing the backlash of the spell impeding their progress – adjusted his spell with surgical quickness, Severus was a beat behind him in backing him up with power.  The door creaked and the spell sitting like a poison inside of it groaned like an iceberg running aground.  Severus merely changed to another spell, following the progress Lucius had been making, and with a thunderous _crack_ the spell broke and the doors swung open. 

“Thank you, Severus!” McGonagall called out, being the only one of their group thus far to be more grateful than afraid of the power displayed by two ex-Resonant wizards, both with Dark tendencies (or at least questionable reputations).  The ‘ex’ before Resonant perhaps didn’t apply any more, as the two were working in perfect sync again, just like the old days.

And just like the old days, Severus could feel the buzz of fear and frustration from Lucius like little claws scratching at his spine.  He ignored it as he had learned to do years ago, wondering if the same sensations of worry would be bleeding from him to Lucius.  “Thanks are premature, Minerva,” he replied, but was too intent on striding forward to have much bite in his words.  Snape would not have admitted it to anyone, but Potter was figuring heavily in his thoughts, and he was far more afraid for the brat’s safety than he’d expected to be.  Shockingly, it nearly rivaled Lucius’s fear for his own boy.  Professor Dumbledore was in his offices working on wresting control of the school from whatever hex was on it, but Severus found that he couldn’t wait long enough to see if the old man got results. 

“Severus.”  Minerva was pointing towards one of the paintings as they rushed through the door.  Immediately, the dour professor stalked towards the painting, because everyone had found that the painted denizens were far more eager to talk to the most fearsome, grouchy professor at Hogwarts than anyone else.  Lucius was acceptable to talk to as well, but the elder Malfoy was far less used to it, and tended to stand back and stare as Snape conversed.

It was the Limping Shepherd again.  If anyone was fit to deal with Professor Snape, it was the rough, acrylic shepherd painting, and he’d been keeping the man informed of the movements of both the Troll and the two First Years on the run from it.  Snape’s bark of “Yes?” didn’t phase the painting at all. 

“The Troll went down another hall, back towards the Dungeons.  It’s getting very close to both Harry and young Draco-”

The Limping Shepherd was interrupted by Lucius immediately stepping forward to Severus’s side, aristocratic mask shattered by fear and worry.  “Are they are right?  Is Draco all right?” 

Normally, Snape had no patience for the effusive worries of others…but this was Lucius, and he found himself precariously close to exploding with questions about the other boy, a certain annoying Gryffindor boy who was no good at Potions and had eyes like his mother.  So he put up with the vibrations of Lucius’s emotions as they raced just an inch beneath his own skin, and more calmly repeated to the painting, “What is the condition of the two boys?  If the hexed doors are giving us trouble, it will be worse for them.”

Before the Limping Shepherd could answer, the was a cry running through the paintings.  “What’s going-?” Snape was about to demand. 

Then the walls began vibrating in the exact same way they had when this had all begun – the castle was reacting to the power of fully matured, fully uncontrolled magic being released.  Everything rattled and groaned as the ambient magic of Hogwarts (and the malevolent, poisonous magic of the hex) reacted like a horse stung by a hornet. 

“Draco,” Lucius immediately gasped.  His pale-grey eyes dashed to Severus, naked panic in them – for once unhindered by self-control or a political façade.  There were few things that could get Lucius Malfoy to show his truth face and real feelings – and his son was one of those things.  “His magic is loose again.  A blast that powerful would scare off a Troll, but it could also kill him.”

Unexpectedly, Severus’s thought were going down a different path, worry about his godson but also finding another life to worry about.  “And the only way that his magic could be loosed so suddenly would be if Potter is dead.”  Severus turned back to the Limping Shepherd, who’d been joined by an older woman painted entirely in shades of yellow.  The Potions Master didn’t wait for her to say anything, merely snarled, “Take us to them!” 

The other professors had no choice but to follow in the two men’s wake as Severus and Lucius charged off down the halls, the fearful voices of paintings leading them.  Perhaps Amarillo would have given away Harry’s secret – that he could turn his magic off entirely if he was desperate enough – but she honestly never got the chance. 

~^~

Draco didn’t wake up until he felt a shudder in the castle, which he’d later find out was Dumbledore breaking the hex.  At that point, the doors stopped locking and unlocking…although Dumbledore didn’t entirely take back control of the castle.  That was a fact that didn’t come out until much later, however.  At the moment, there was merely a groggy, pale-haired Draco waking up to a minor tremor on a little-used couch in Snape’s office. 

Harry remained sleeping, even if Cerule’s ridged head lifted, cobalt tongue investigating the air.  Whatever the serpent tasted made him coil up a little tighter around Potter; at some point, the snake had woven a loop over Harry’s ankles.  The exhausted boy was on his side now, draped over the sea of blue-and-black coils with one hand underneath them.  It was impossible to tell if Harry had moved that arm there himself with the subconscious idea of pillowing his head on it, or whether Cerule had maneuvered the limb with constant, purposeful motions of his powerful body.  Either way, despite all of the snake’s power and control over the Gryffindor Golden boy right now, Cerule was also impeccably gentle. 

It took Draco only a foggy glance to tell that, and then he collapsed back on the couch again.  His back and front hurt, and just the thought of taking off his robes and shirt to see his scars – renewed now, awake and raw and burning – pushed tears to the edges of his eyes.  It was as if the world had heard he was healing, and had decided that that just wasn’t allowed.  Draco Malfoy was meant to be the bearer of ugly scars.

The door burst open suddenly, making Draco look up before his thoughts could get him to cry.  As suddenly as if they’d Apparated, both his father and godfather were in the room and far more wild-eyed than he’d ever seen them.  Lucius found Draco immediately as only a father can, and then Draco was being lifted into a hug that he whimpered at.  “Draco?  Draco!  Are you hurt?” demanded Lucius as he immediately released his boy, eyes bright silver with less control than Draco had ever seen of his father. 

Still a bit groggy and stunned by his father’s arrival, Draco rubbed at his eyes and mumbled, “ ‘M fine.  The scars just hurt because my magic went crazy-”

Then, unexpectedly, Severus was there as well, a similarly wild look on his face but for a different reason.  “Draco, where is Potter?  What happened to him?”

Draco blinked, clearly unable to tell just what had his godfather so worked up.  True, Harry was presently hidden from view by Snape’s desk right now, but if anything, the dark-haired man would get even more panicked if he saw Harry curled up with a snake…  Still, Draco cleared his throat and waved a hand vaguely behind the desk.  “He’s fine, Uncle Sev.  He’s sleeping with Cerule.”

“Cer-?” Severus started before his brain caught up with the words and he spun around: dark eyes went to the empty terrarium and then down to his desk, where he could just see a scaled tail sticking out past.  He nearly had a heart-attack right then, and was reaching for his wand and striding around his desk even as Draco raced to explain further. 

“It’s all right!  Honest – Harry turned his magic off and wasn’t doing awfully well, but when we got back here, he let the snake out and just sort of fell asleep on it.”  Unaware of how his father was staring at him as if he couldn’t decide whether to be more flabbergasted or worried, Draco kept speaking to Snape, “It’s absolutely barmy, I know, but the snake isn’t going to hurt him.”

At that point, Snape got far enough around his massive desk to see the pair behind it – and he’d listened enough to Draco’s explanation not to instantly start shooting spells.  This was all too odd for his brain to comprehend.  There was Potter, for all appearances in an exhausted sleep on a pillow of serpent – said serpent eying Snape almost boredly from where it had moved to rest its head on the boy’s bony little hip.  He was breathing, but he looked horrid, and only the sickest of Gryffindor boy wouldn’t have been awakened by the ruckus Severus and Lucius had just set up.  “Wait,” Severus lifted his head, looking away from the snake long enough to recall Draco sitting with his father, “Did you say he _turned off_ his magic?”

Draco nodded.  He looked so small, with dark circles under his eyes and strain on his pointed features.  “It was the only way to get that Troll.”

“Draco, a person cannot just turn their magic off,” Lucius soothed.  The temperament of the room had calmed significantly, now that Lucius had figured out how to hold his boy close to him without making him hurt.  Severus was still wired rather tightly, but he would have been made edgy by Cerule being free in his office regardless of the circumstances. 

In response to his father’s denial, Draco straightened even though his scars protested.  “No!  He did it!  I don’t know _how_ , but he did!  When Harry realized that there was no other way for us to survive that Troll, he just did it, even though it knocked him on his ars-”

“Draco, language,” Lucius’s smooth tones absently chastised his boy, and he pulled him as close against his side as he could.  Lucius’s eyes were on Severus now, alert and curious and full of questions – most of which would never make it past his canny mouth.  “Mr. Potter can turn off his magic?” he asked unreadably. 

Severus knew that look: Lucius was getting a whiff of the powerful secrets that Harry was hiding, and that Severus was hiding _for_ Harry.  The Potions Master rolled his eyes even as he consigned himself to future uncomfortable talks (read: interrogations) with Lucius Malfoy.  He’d have to rethink just how badly he wanted to keep Harry’s secrets, because Lucius would be like a wolf salivating at his throat after this.  All he replied, however, was a jaded, “Apparently.  I’ll ask him as soon as I can get him away from the snake you gave me.  Potter!  Wake up!”

In the end, it was that familiar whip-crack of Professor Snape’s voice that roused Harry – but probably only because it could rouse _the dead_ , so long as the dead had once been in his class and learned the risks of ignoring the Potions Master.  Harry’s eyes flickered open as if they were made of lead, and he groaned. 

“His eyes are pale,” Draco pointed out, leaning to one side to get a look at the other boy, “It looks creepy, and I don’t think it’s a good thing.”

“I noticed,” Snape drawled, leaning closer.  Harry’s head twitched, twisting around to look up at him without any sign that he actually recognized him beyond knee-jerk reaction to his voice.  None of Harry’s movements bothered Cerule in the slightest; instead, the snake just adjusted to accommodate him.  Fortunately, after Harry’s last talk with the snake, he didn’t seem all that interested in eating Severus alive. 

In fact, Cercule remained docile as Severus stepped close enough to reach down (with the hand not holding his wand tensely at the ready) and tip Harry’s face towards him with one long finger beneath his chin.  Harry made a breathy noise like he was thinking about talking but didn’t have the energy or sentience at the moment, his expression scrunching up.  He looked like nothing so much as an abandoned kitten, left out in the gutter too early to fend for itself, thin and sickly.  Severus’s eyes widened fractionally at the difference that had been wrought in the boy’s face, and without further pause, he sheathed his wand and ignored Cerule to scoop the boy up.  In the end, it was more a case of _untangling_ the young Gryffindor, but Cerule didn’t protest and neither did Harry.  When the tall Potions Master stood up from behind his desk, he had a small, dark-haired figure against his chest.  Draco looked utterly and comically flabbergasted at the sight, as if the vision of Professor Snape and Harry Potter coexisting was simply outside of the realm of reality.  Truthfully, if someone had told Snape a month ago that he’d be cradling the son of James Potter and worrying about his health, he’d have scoffed and then hexed them senseless. 

“He doesn’t want anyone to know,” Draco finally got his brain together to protest weakly as Severus stepped out from behind his desk.  Disconcertingly, Cerule followed like a massive, scaled shadow that Harry was dragging behind him.  Severus was watching the animal with obvious wariness, but Lucius, if anything, looked amusedly impressed. 

Severus glared down at Harry while he thought; the boy was asleep again, but he’d already seen the odd paleness of his eyes that matched the sickly pallor of his face.  Even his breathing seemed labored.  “This happened to him before or after he…turned his magic back on?” Severus asked. 

“He kind of collapsed not long after he turned it off,” Draco obediently explained while his eyes remained worriedly fixed on Harry.  “I-I don’t really remember.  But this is better than he was – he was a real wreck before he turned his magic back on.  He’s better than he was.”

Snape found that hard to believe, as Harry pulled in another wheezing sigh.  But then the boy’s eyes flickered open again, this time blinking with more coherence as he realized that he was, at least, no longer napping with a snake big enough to eat a groan goat.  He thrashed awkwardly for a moment and Severus tightened his grip reflexively.  “Potter!  Stop struggling before you end up making a sharp acquaintance with the floor!”

Green eyes almost back to their usual emerald jerked up to Snape’s face, and Harry’s jaw dropped.  It was still shocking how much he looked like a sickly street-child, his face looking thinner because it was pale, his whole appearance lending itself to a fevered look.  With an almost physical bolt of shock, Severus realized that this was a lot like what Harry had looked like when he’d first gotten off the boats at Hogwarts.  “Snape!” the boy yelped. 

“Yes, Snape,” Lucius parroted back, drawing Harry’s attention sluggishly because it was hard enough to come to terms with being this close to the most feared professor of Hogwarts.  “Take him to Pomfrey, Severus.  I’ll come along with Draco, and we’ll come up with a lie, if needed,” Lucius purred with that troublemaker smile flirting with his elegant face.  “Lies are something I’m not ashamed to admit I’m very good at, although I’ll deny saying that if you tell anyone.  Come along, Draco.  Can you walk?” 

“Of course, Father.”

Harry was looking between the two adult faces in the room with clear befuddlement, body still stiff despite the warning about being dropped if he squirmed. 

“Potter.”  Snape’s voice grounded his attention. 

“Um…yes?”

“You’ve done this stunt before, yes?  Turning your magic off?”

Maybe it was because Snape’s voice was so no-nonsense that Harry didn’t even _bother_ to deny what had happened; he’d given up so many secrets to Snape already that one more probably didn’t matter.  “Y-Yes.  At the Dursley’s.  A lot.  They hated magic, so hiding it was a good idea.  It made me feel sick after.”

One impervious eyebrow rose above derisive dark eyes.  “You look quite sick _now_.”

“I’ll be fine,” Harry assured him, blinking.  He didn’t understand why people were worrying.  He tried to get out of Snape’s grip until the man made a gruff noise at him that might have passed for a growl; _that_ got Harry to freeze. 

Assured that the little brat wasn’t going to squirm out of his arms, Severus looked down his nose and demanded to know, “What symptoms do you get when you do this?  How long before you recover, if you do, indeed recover?”

“Of course I recover,” Harry narrowed his eyes to argue back, voice still a little reedy.  Lucius and Draco was standing now, the latter leaning under the arm of the former, but the Malfoys had been effectively forgotten by the arguing pair.  “I’ve done this…hell, a score of times.”

Draco muttered from his place beside his father, “How come he can swear and I-?”  His father shushed him and continued to avidly watch Severus and Harry argue. 

“And the symptoms always presented themselves as this?” Snape drawled condescendingly because that was just his usual tone, scraping his eyes from the boy’s head to his shoes, “Exhaustion, labored breathing, paleness of skin and eyes, and a tendency to _cuddle_ with snakes?”

“It always tires me out and makes me feel like I’ve caught a chill,” Harry corrected with a defensive expression, and Draco felt Harry’s magic return a little more to normal – it was like a ripple against his sternum.  “And I’ve never had a snake around, so I can’t _cuddle_ with anything!”  Suddenly he stopped, blinking and reaching up a hand to his face before asking guilelessly, “I have pale eyes?”

While Lucius chuckled a little and Draco looked befuddled, Severus narrowed his eyes another fraction before simply bulling onwards.  “If you truly do not want Madame Pomfrey to know about what you have just done, then tell me what would work to stabilize and improve your health.  I may not care much for fool-headed Gryffindors, but I will not be so derelict of my duties as a professor to just let you suffer.”

This signaled a change in the conversation, as Harry was forced to realize that – despite all prior evidence to the contrary – Professor Snape _was_ interested in helping him.  For his part, Snape continued to snarky, but not downright unfriendly.  His tone could be more accurately categorized as focused and brusque, eager to get the information so he could stop this whole talk.  Even as the two talked/squabbled, it became clear that Harry was recovering, until finally he said, “I think I can stand, Professor.”

Snape froze, simply standing with his eyes narrowed for a moment.  Then he looked the Gryffindor boy over one more time an catalogued the changes he could see, namely that Potter looked and sounder a lot healthier than before.  “We’ll see,” the imposing man nonetheless said grimly, almost managing to make it sound like a threat. 

“Um…Severus?” Lucius caught the Potion Master’s attention, receiving a searing glare reflexively in return.  “Before you do that…”  Lucius pointed downwards and drew everyone’s eyes.  Severus looked down to realize that Cerule had slithered forth from under his desk to circumscribe a circle around his ankles, clearly intent on being next to Harry.  To say that it made Severus nervous was an understatement.  “Professor?” Harry asked carefully, wincing at the tension creeping into Snape’s posture and easily felt through the arms supporting him, “Would you like me to-?”

“No, Potter,” Severus halted the boy before any notion of Parseltongue came out.  A second later, Harry seemed to realize what he’d almost said, but only because he caught Draco’s glare as the young Slytherin jerked his eyes from Harry to Lucius and back.  Maybe Harry was not quite as recovered as he thought, if he was so unguarded.  “Lucius, if you could please return Cerule to his terrarium, please?  You’re more skilled at moving serpents about.”

Lucius smirked, either missing the discrepancy in Harry’s conversation or dismissing it in favor of one-upping Severus.  “That I am,” he said, stepping forward.  The spell on his lips was probably complicated, but sounded easy to the pale-haired aristocrat, and Cerule was banished to him home with a hiss.  The serpent shifted against the sand of his tank, reminding Severus about what Harry had said: that the massive viper didn’t care for magical transportation.  Draco, Severus, and Harry all shared a sympathetic wince that Lucius missed.  “Let’s get moving then.  Draco has waited long enough to have someone see to his injuries.”

The reminder that at least Madame Pomfrey was going to see his scars again made Draco immediately uncomfortable.  “They’re really nothing, Dad.  Just scars-”

“No arguments, Draco.”  Lucius hid the pure weight of his fatherly concern in manners and conciseness, but Severus could spot it a mile away and snorted.  Lucius shot him a cutting look, which Severus avoided by putting Harry down.  The Gryffindor boy still looked sickly and unsteady, and Severus unconsciously found himself keeping the boy close even after Harry’s feet touched the ground.  Severus found himself scrounging his memories of the boy to see if this had _really_ been what Harry had looked like when he’d first arrived and sat under that ridiculous Sorting Hat.  If it was, then that meant Harry had been turning off his magic not long before that – and with that thought came Harry’s comment about the Dursleys, and how they hated magic so much that Harry had felt driven to hide it. 

“Can you stand, Potter, or will I have to carry you?” Snape droned as his thoughts turned over and over upon themselves in a questioning sea, letting Lucius and Draco once again take the lead.  This was becoming familiar, and with every private word he shared with Potter, he felt that he was seeing him more truly. 

Being carried was something that any First Year would find embarrassing, even if the carrier were someone other than Professor Snape.  Harry shook his head vigorously.  “No, Professor!  I can walk just fine!” 

Nonetheless, the walk to the Infirmary was slow.  Even if both boys insisted they were fine, neither one was.  Fortunately, both of them had two powerful wizards looking out for them, not to mention a whole castle-full of paintings.  The paintings had originally been protective exclusively of their Little Serpent, but now that they’d watched Draco and Harry together (walking in the halls, bickering as they came and went from classes, running from a Troll and protecting each other with all they had), that protection and fond affection had spread to Harry Potter as well.  They watched with painted eyes as the quartet of wizards made their way to the Infirmary. 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now Lucius knows that Harry can 'turn off' his magic, and has a whiff of more secrets...Severus's week is about to get more difficult. 
> 
> This chapter was a bit tangled, so I keep feeling that I've forgotten some important stuff :P If I left some huge plot-gap tell me! I don't think I did, but who knows?


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Harry are seen to, and then Severus gets a bit of time with Lucius...time that is perhaps well-spent, perhaps not, depending on your point of view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be prepared for some Sev and Lucius time! Sorry this is almost late - it's break for me, and I lost track of my days XD I've been typing like mad all evening to finish this up.

~^~

Despite having recovered since being found napping on a snake, Harry was swaying tiredly by the time they made it to the Infirmary.  Snape kept close: not so close that anyone realized that he’d gone from stubbornly nasty to vaguely protective, but close enough that he would have been able to catch Harry before he hit the ground if he should stumble or collapse. 

The Infirmary was abuzz with activity – while the Troll hadn’t actually managed to hurt anyone, the news of it had caused many of the younger students to go into a panic.  Now that no one was confined to their common-room anymore, there were flocks of scared, hyperventilating youngster demanding Madame Pomfrey’s attention and her calming-draughts. 

The entrance of Draco and his unique scars got the flustered Medi-witch’s attention immediately.  She also noticed how odd – and how ill – Harry looked, but before her beetled brows could become true curiosity, Lucius came into play.  The man didn’t have just silver eyes, he had a silver tongue, and now he put it to good use as he’d promised.  He kept Promfrey’s attention on Draco (and understandile move, considering he was the boy’s father and legitimately worried) and smoothly introduced the lies that Harry had been worn and tired out by Draco’s explosion of magic (which everyone had felt as a rattling vibration through the castle walls again).  The story was that Draco and Harry had gotten separated, thus releasing Draco’s magic, and that Harry had come back as quickly as he could to defuse it with his presence. 

That was basically what had happened the only other time that Draco’s magic had gotten out of control, so it was a plausible story.  Madame Promfrey looked wary of swallow the tale whole, however, as she looked between Lucius’s confident face and Harry’s half-asleep, pale-eyed look.  Her main concern was Draco, however, and besides that, she had a full-house tonight with minor panic-attacks. 

“See, told you I was handy with a turn of phrase,” Lucius smirked, falling back to stand beside Severus as Draco was examined by Madame Pomfrey (behind a curtain for privacy as he bared his scars for the Medi-witch to see). 

Severus drawled back less delicately but still quietly, “I always knew you were good at lying.  That was never up for debate, although it makes you a questionable companion for dinner conversation.”

Lucius snorted, taking the condemnation as a joke.  “Speaking of dinner conversation, you and I never got that dinner I promised.”

The Potions Master actually jolted, taken off-guard so suddenly by Lucius’s words that he nearly lost his footing despite being in a standing position.  Unexpectedly, Harry – who’d been napping quite innocuously in a spare bed nearby – half-opened his eyes and turned his head briefly.  He couldn’t have actually heard anything, since neither Snape nor Lucius had raised their voices, so Severus was left suspicious of just what had roused the boy’s attention.  What he didn’t know was that Harry had sensed the startled flair of magic at Severus’s core, and that was what had startled him from sleep – that was on secret that Harry still hadn’t given him. 

Harry drifted back into a doze a moment later, however, so Snape was left reluctantly to return to his talk with Lucius – which always felt a lot like walking into a nest of scorpions.  He sighed and gathered himself unenthusiastically to answer, “No, we did not.”

“By the time we get the boys settled in bed again after this,” Lucius noted with an irked frown, “it will be far too late – or early – to make up for that.  Pity.  I imagine we could both stay awake long enough for a drink, however, couldn’t we?”

A drink was less…complicated…than a full meal with Lucius Malfoy, as much as Severus was secretly interested in the idea.  He was more than slightly uneasy about how Narcissa would look upon such a meeting, and she was a dangerous witch to get on the bad side of.  Still, drinks with Lucius was no less dangerous, if only because one wanted to keep a level head when talking with the man. 

Seeing the hesitation, Lucius put on a more coaxing tone, encouraging, “Come on, Severus, just like old times.  How long has it been since you’ve shared a drink with me?”

“Not nearly so long as you’re implying.”

“Semantics,” Lucius shrugged. 

“Shouldn’t you be more worried about your boy?” Severus deftly tried to distract.

It didn’t work: Lucius was a protective father, but he was also a sensible one, and knew when he’d done what he could.  “Draco already told me that this time wasn’t as bad as the first, and there was precious little I could do last time his magic…did this.”  Faint tension entered his voice, and Lucius’s glass-sharp grey eyes narrowed at the memory; the faint tension of his fingers against the sides of his robes told Severus that he wanted to strangle the elders Crabbe and Boyle all over again.  Malfoys had a long memory, longer for sins done against family.  “Also, for being chased by a Troll, he doesn’t seem all that traumatized.  Draco says he’s going to be fine, and I believe my boy.  Honestly, I’m more worried about Potter.”

“I’ll need to make some potions for him,” Severus turned to the new topic, rather glad for the distraction – and the excuse.  “Considering that we are dealing with a rather novel phenomenon, I think I have some idea of what might help him.  Although there is sadly no draught for foolishness, which is what I would label what he did as.  Poppy ran a preliminary medical scan of him, and said that-”

“I think she actually said that she had the necessary potions in stock,” Lucius amended with a faint smile, “A few basic, nutrient-infused potions and the like, I think she said.  Getting a bit over-bearing, aren’t we, Severus?” 

Tactfully, Severus held his tongue now, simply taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly through his long nose.  Sometimes, he knew from experience, denying something solidified it more into truth than simply acknowledging it with silence…and if he was worry about the Potter boy, that was his own business and no one else’s. 

“You go do whatever you Potion Masters do then, and I’ll see that the boys get back to their rooms safely,” Lucius proposed a compromise, which was really more of a command, something Lucius was quite good at doing.  Actually, what Lucius was good at was getting what he wanted.  “Then I’ll meet you in your quarters for a stiff drink.  I think an altercation with a Troll calls for at least that.”

Snape gave in and agreed with apparent reluctance, but found his traitor mind focusing on the last words: ‘at least that’. 

~^~

Draco and Harry were, indeed, dismissed from the Infirmary and escorted by Lucius back to the Slytherin wing.  It was suggested that Harry at least stop by the Gryffindor wing to inform his friends of his good health, but he shied away from the idea – Draco was pretty sure why.  “Your little Gryffindor friends don’t know that you turn off your magic at your uncle’s place, do they?” he asked in an undertone so only Harry would hear.

Harry still looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, his eyes bleary and still a shade off from their normal color behind his glasses.  For a moment, it even seemed that he was too worn out to follow what Draco was saying, although he leaned his ear closer instinctively to catch the muttered words.  A moment later, he nodded.  “Ron and ’Mione don’t know that one.”

“How do you keep these secrets all straight in your head?” Draco asked with true, incredulous curiosity, turning his head to wrinkle his nose at the other young boy. 

Eyes still half-open and forward, Harry just shrugged.  “I’ve been keeping secrets for as long as I could remember.  I either hid that I had magic, or Uncle Vernon…”  At that point, Potter seemed to realize just what he was babbling on about, and snapped his mouth shut and looked down at his feet.  Nothing more was said on the way to the Slytherin rooms, and they went straight there, so that Harry’s Gryffindor friends wouldn’t see his present condition and go out of their minds with worry.  For once, knowing less was probably better for them – they’d be more uneasy if they actually saw him. 

“Good night, Draco,” Lucius said as they paused at the entrance, Harry turning like a sleepwalker to the painting of Lady in Black (who was usually a stickler for rules, but opened up to let the bleary boy in with nothing more than a look of sharp concern and sympathy).  Draco held obediently still as his father stroked his hair back and planted a formal – but some how still very fatherly – kiss on his forehead.  “I’m glad you did so well and so bravely today – I expected no less from a son of mine.”

Draco smiled and preened under the praise for a moment, and would have stayed and talked with his father some more had he not caught sight of Harry out of the corner of his eye.  After feeling the poignant absence of Harry’s magic, Draco noticed the other boy’s presence more keenly than before.  Now, he turned just as the pothole swung open, Harry shuffling in on dragging feet.  A pang of anxiety went through Draco, as he thought about the Gryffindor staggering through the ‘Snake Pit’ in his condition – he’d be like fresh meat thrown to wolves.  Wolves of a different House, no less.  Draco turned back to his father, hurriedly finding words to encompass what he felt he had to do: “Er…father?  I’m going to follow Potter in.  I figure I should…you know, just go right to bed.”  ‘ _Watch after Harry’_ was the first phrase that actually came to mind, but he wasn’t sure where that came from. 

“Of course, Draco,” Lucius said, his cultured voice and practiced expression hiding everything except a smooth smile.  Another quick kiss was pressed to Draco’s hair.  “Sleep well.”

“You, too, father,” Draco returned with fitting Pureblood manners, but slipped out of the ensuing hug as quickly as politely possible to chase Harry through the porthole. 

Lucius watched, his previous expression still on his face, as impermeable as a mask.  He tilted is head fractionally, the only giveaway that he was deeply pondering the actions and reactions between his son and the Gryffindor Golden Boy. 

~^~

Snape worked on a few potions more as a way to distract his mind, which was a mass of too many turning gears at this moment.  As soon as the little chores ran out (he couldn’t very well start a new potion with Lucius promised to drop in soon and interrupt him), the cacophony of Severus’s mind returned full-force. 

‘ _Harry might be healing well to the naked eye, but turning off his magic could have damaged him in a more long-reaching fashion_ ,’ Severus worried, trying to think logically about an action that was entirely illogical – why in Merlin’s name did Potter have to o around doing things that normal wizards couldn’t!  He paced about his sitting room, cloaks a dark, swirling storm around him.  ‘ _And if Dumbledore learns all that the boy can do – and how attached that blasted, Nagini-like snake is to him_ …”  Snape shivered a little just at the thought of seeing Harry snuggled up with Cerule, and earlier talking to the snake in Parselmouth as if it were second-nature.  Cerule was very nearly as big as Voldemort’s snake, and had the hypnotic abilities of Vascillai Pit Viper besides.  ‘ _Dumbledore’s ideas about another Potter being another Dark Lord rising will only gain more footing_ ,’ Snape was sure.  Suddenly, he was seeing the similarities himself, but not the core of malevolence in the person beneath. 

Severus was shaken from his anxious ponderings by the feeling of someone brushing up against his wards – a knock followed.  Apparently, Lucius was feeling polite this evening, to bother with knocking.  “Come in!” Severus barked with far less thought to decorum, dropping the magic protecting his rooms. 

The first thing he noticed was that Lucius felt a lot more like his Resonant after today’s teamwork: it had been years since the last effects of having complimentary magics had worn off.  Today, however, they’d worked in tandem, and some of that old feeling had come back – combined with the little Resonant performance they’d put together for Draco and Harry, it felt like old times. 

Back then, it had been possible to detect emotions from Lucius, but now, Lucius was much more in control of himself and Severus out of practice in deciphering the messages shared between their resonating magics, so all he sensed was the familiar, almost comforting presence of the other man as he walked in.  “Pacing, Severus?  Why, someone might almost think that something was on your mind,” Lucius teased. 

“Of course I do,” Severus admitted, knowing that lies tasted best when they followed down the fresh flavor of a truth, “A Troll breaking into Hogwarts is rather hard to just compartmentalize and ignore.”  To hide the fact that that was actually only a small fraction of what he was thinking about, Severus turned to summon some wine and goblets, calling them by magic but then pouring by hand. 

“Thank you,” Lucius accepted a glass, but out of habit didn’t drink immediately.  Since it was Severus pouring, he wouldn’t use a spell to determine whether there was poison in the drink, but he’d pause during that time where he would usually perform said spell.  It was an unconscious thing, and Severus was probably one of the few people in the world who knew about it.  “I think you’re actually puzzling over something else.”

Drat.  Severus’s lip curled in displeasure as, half way to sitting down, Lucius caught the edge of his lie.  Apparently Lucius was more observant this evening than usual, or else he’d planned this meeting all along to follow up on the oddities of this evening – the oddities of Potter.  Lucius had been holding in his curiosity far too well up until now, and Severus should have known that that kind of storm didn’t just blow over. 

“Don’t try to avoid me, Severus,” Lucius went on with a growing smirk, swirling his wine around the goblet before finally drinking.  By now, in other places with less-trusted people, he would have ascertained whether someone had just made an attempt at his life.  Now, he just drank, knowing that the dark-haired Potions Master would never make an attempt on his life like this. 

Sadly, Severus didn’t feel that same level of explicit trust in return.  He eyed the other man with open wariness.  True, he believed that Lucius would never kill him, but there was a lot that could be done before reaching that rather permanent stage, and anyone with a brain knew that Lucius was a dangerous man.  To say that Severus wasn’t always slightly wary of him…would be a lie, as well as unwise.  He liked Lucius in the way a person liked a big cat: their beauty was striking, but you had to realize that at least half of that beauty came hand-in-hand with a truly spectacular ability to do damage to things.  He wished that he could spend time with Lucius without fearing him, but he couldn’t, so now he sat and quietly steeled his nerves as he was used to, pretending to watch his wine while he actually monitored Lucius’s slow prowl around the room. 

“Draco and Harry are both in bed,” Lucius picked up conversation again, “At least, I assume they are, seeing as I saw them off at the portrait-hole.  Considering their track-record for trouble, however, I should perhaps not make any bets yet.  That Potter boy in particular, yes, Severus?”

And that was the hook; Snape could feel it in his skin as well as he could feel the hum of Lucius’s interest through his magic.  Being Lucius’s Resonant, Severus could sense that like a shiver against the skin of his nape, high on his neck.  He didn’t answer, instead impertinently keeping his own council and sipping his wine.  The scent filled his nose and the alcohol was a delicate burn down his throat. 

Lucius let the silent grow just a moment – just long enough to be sure that Severus wasn’t going to reply.  Then he went on, “I’ve read a lot about odd wizarding maladies and abilities in my years, and I know that you know of even more, but a wizard capable of turning off his magic hasn’t turned up at all, has it?”

This, Severus felt compelled to answer, if only because this conundrum frustrated him so.  “He shouldn’t be able to do it at all, but after going over all the facts – as well as talking to a few paintings, who were _far_ from eager to tell me anything about the matter – it seems that he has, indeed, managed it.”  Severus managed to say this as if Potter’s oddities were a personal affront.  Honestly, the boy was becoming quite an irksome part of his life, if only because the boy had more secrets than most people had in a lifetime. 

Those secrets, unfortunately, would be difficult for Severus to keep. 

“Just what else is that boy up to?” Lucius more boldly began to hunt his prey, stopping at the side of the couch at Severus’s elbow, close enough to touch but standing broadside to him.  The posture was non-confrontational, a purposeful pose learned from years manipulating people in politics. 

Severus knew those tricks nearly as well as Lucius.  He countered by simply watching the contents of his drink again, wearing a mask in the form of complete indifference.  “I’m sure I don’t know.  The little dunderhead has been the bane of my Potions class since term started.”

“And you’re suddenly far more congenial towards him,” Lucius looked at him and spoke more directly, grey eyes sharp and alert. 

Severus sipped his drink.  He wanted to gulp it at this point, but the only thing worse than trying to hide secrets from Lucius was trying to hide secrets from Lucius _drunk_.  Even a pleasant buzz was denied Severus now, if he wanted to keep pace with the other man in this verbal sparring match.  “I have to, Lucius, he’s tied to _your_ son,” Severus retorted with sincere grouchiness. 

In the face of that, Lucius just eyed him – a gaze that Severus warmed under, but a gaze that also felt as though it were taking him apart.  Why in the world he was attracted to this dangerous personality, he’d never know.  Severus drummed the fingers of his free hand on the arm of the couch nearest Lucius to wordlessly show his irritation with how this talk was going.  Lucius responded by padding off, wondering out of Severus’s range of sight by going behind the couch.  Thanks to his wards (which were everywhere, as well as incredibly sensitive), Severus was able to keep tabs on where he was.  “Lucius, do we have to talk like this?” he appealed in a sigh.  He added in something closer to a warning growl, “I invited you over to talk, not to interrogate.”

Severus carefully refrained from instinctively stiffening as he sensed the aristocrat walking up behind him, taking up a position against the back of the couch.  Between friends, this was nothing odd or dangerous, but with Lucius…?  There was no way of telling.  But after a pause, the reply was regretful, softened from the prying tone of earlier.  Severus released a soft breath of relief.  “I’m sorry, Severus.  As the scorpion said – it’s in my nature, and all that.  Those aren’t tricks I should be playing on a friend.”

The sensation of Lucius’s keen interest hadn’t exactly faded, but it had ceased to itch at the back of Severus’s neck, and he allowed himself to relax a bit in turn.  Severus Snape as a man who relaxed seldom, and Lucius could say proudly that he was the man most often present when the Potions Master did.  Their friendship had been forced early by being stuck together – just as Harry and Draco were stuck now – but had grown up beyond that, until each man was the other’s confidant and most trusted friend.  True, that trust had limits, namely when Lucius’s questionable morals and vivacious nosiness came into play.  That was simply how their relationship worked, however, a delicately poised pattern.

Lucius was pressing that pattern, however, threatening to unsettle its precise geometry.  He leaned forward, and he must have set down his wine at some point, because Severus felt both of the aristocrat’s long-fingered hands brush against the neck of his robes.  Before the dark-haired Potions Master could adequately register this, Lucius’s hands had slipped down until they were braced against either of his shoulders as he leaned slightly over the back of the couch.  “Why are you protecting his secrets, Severus?” Lucius whispered in his ear, as if he couldn’t understand the notion.  While he continued to play to this mild curiosity, his hands shifted again, sliding along the thick material of Severus’s robes so that one followed the hidden line of his collarbone.  Severus pulled in a breath, unsure whether he was strictly uncomfortable or slowly falling prey to other emotions.  Lucius continued to talk near his ear, switching to a more practical tone, “I know that he’s told you more than you’ve told me.  I’m not a fool, after all.”

It took effort, but Severus managed to gather his wits back together enough to clear his throat rather embarrassingly and reach up to grab one of Lucius’s wrists.  He removed it from his person enough to sit forward and then stand up, refusing to admit how much he had relished the warmth and missed it now.  “I know that, Lucius.  And what you know about me is that keeping secrets if _my_ forte.  So what I know, you will simply have to live without knowing.”  He turned around, surveying Lucius bent forward over the back of the couch (somehow still managing to look elegant and poised) and the man’s drink – which he’d actually set to levitate without Severus noticing somehow.  Severus plucked it out of the air by the stem, then downed it in one swallow.  To hell with sobriety. 

Lucius’s expression had been frozen, waiting to see just how Severus would react to his unorthodox new actions, but now it relaxed slightly into a smirk, sharp against his blonde hair and watchful eyes.  “Unsettled, Severus?”

Severus told Lucius a few uncouth things he could do with himself, and the Malfoy chuckled before straightening and pacing closer again.  Somewhere in the last few minutes, Lucius had decided to rewrite just what the acceptable boundaries of personal space were.  “You’re the lord of secrets, Severus – I’ve always respected that about you – but I think I’ll get them out of you eventually,” Lucius teased, stealing Severus’s drink in turn but only taking a small sample of it. 

With a snort, Severus merely narrowed his eyes.  “Good luck with that, Lucius.  Wasn’t the last bet you lost against me?” he reminded with a slight sneer. 

Unfortunately, that only lit the fires of challenge in Lucius’s grey eyes, like lightning invigorating a storm.  “That was Quidditch, and I’m notoriously bad at Quidditch.”

“You’re not notoriously bad at anything.  Anyone who would make you notorious has been quietly put away,” Severus continued the verbal game.  Perhaps even that one glass of wine was making him bold, or else it was having the other man close enough to touch. 

But Lucius just smiled that small smile of his, the one more visible in his eyes and the faint twitch at the edge of his mouth.  “Except for you, Severus,” he reminded almost airily.

“That is hardly an argument in your favor,” drawled Severus in return. 

“True, but I’ve already got you to admit that you _do_ know secrets about Harry, and that is enough for me right now.  I want to know, but I can be patient.”

Suddenly, some of the fun was leaving the conversation again, and Severus narrowed his eyes and glanced down his nose at his wily companion – a man not easily beaten and almost never outmaneuvered.  He rather feared that this _was_ something Lucius would win.  Especially if he kept up this habit of standing so close…

~^~

Dumbledore stood in his office, breathing at a rate probably unhealthy for a man of his apparent age.  Falks watched uneasily from his perch, but no one else was in the room, no one else to know of the struggle that had gone on in the past few hours. 

As soon as word had gone out that there was a Troll in the schools, Dumbledore had suspected foul-play: there were many means set up to prevent such things from getting into the school, and Trolls were not likely to even wander close without great incentive.  Worry and suspicion had grown into fear when it had become known that a powerful hex accompanied this intrusion – a hex that had suborned the magic of Hogwarts itself. 

Dumbledore had done what he had to do: he’d left Troll-hunting to his fellow professors and had retreated to his own quarters, set on defeated the hex.  Any hex powerful enough to twist the power that lay within the very stones of Hogwarts was nothing to be messed with, and since Dumbledore was the Master of the castle, it was his duty to dispel the magical aggressor. 

Only it turned out to not be that simple.  He had expected a very powerful bit of magic, because nothing less could accomplish this, but the Headmaster was overwhelmed by the pure power and intricacy he soon found himself pitted against.  This was a spell the likes of which he’d never faced before – a titanic grip that fought him for control of Hogwarts.  While Snape and Malfoy busted down doors and Harry and Draco ran and then fought the Troll, Dumbledore magically battled until sweat ran down his aging frame and ragged gasps tore his body.  It was vicious, and Dumbledore was at his magical limit by the time he finally shattered the hex and dispelled it.

Now he stood, recovering, and looking grimly and unhappily upon his victory.  He clenched his jaw in frustration, beard quivering, but at the moment did not know what to do.  Perhaps when his strength was back, he’d wrestle the problem. 

Dumbledore had managed to break the magic of Hogwarts free of the hex, but he had not managed to return that control to himself.  Right now, _no one_ was the Master of the school.  

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a reference to a fable - the story of the scorpion and the turtle. That's what Lucius is referring to when he says, "It's in my nature and all that." That's a line the scorpion says. You don't have to know the fable, but maybe it will help a few of you who were caught on the line :P 
> 
> I've already got the next chapter planned! Severus got sort-of-cuddles, so now it's the younger generation's turn for sort-of-cuddles ;)
> 
> Hopefully Severus will get real cuddles soon...without being interrogated at the same time.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco has a bit of extra fallout from the Troll attack - but Harry helps him deal with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which Harry is a good listener and a truly chill dude :) And where Blaise is also chill, and also far more attentive and watchful than people think he is...
> 
> This chapter was really fun to write! Hopefully you enjoy!

~^~

Draco and Harry had managed to make it through the common-room and up to their beds unscathed, although only because Draco had put on his most pompous, Pureblood airs and had soundly lectured anyone who had tried to stop them with questions.  Draco got a lot of glares for his troubles, but he didn’t care – his reputation could hardly get any worse anyway.  At the moment, Draco found himself only caring about his Resonant. 

Blaise was in their room when they arrived, reading his book as if that was his natural occupation.  Harry gave him a few disconcerted blinks, completely oblivious to the fact that Draco puffed up at his side like a small attack-dog warning people off.  Being perhaps more canny than most people gave him credit for, because after flicking his dark eyes over the two, he simply picked his book back up and went to it, without so much as a word. 

With Harry now back in his room, Draco was left at loose ends, and more than a little bit flustered that he’d been so protective in the first place.  ‘ _You’re stuck with him_ ,’ Draco reminded himself, sitting on the edge of his bed stiffly while Harry wandered into the bathroom and closed the door, having somehow grabbed his nightclothes on the way, ‘ _It wouldn’t do to have him out of sorts if you have to live around him anyway_.’

“So you two trounced a Troll?” Blaise spoke up only then, his voice completely chill and managing to sound not an ounce curious.  It was a marked improvement from the rabid interest in the common-room below. 

Perhaps that was why Draco actually answered instead of just snubbing him.  Then again, no one in the common-room had actually known anything beyond that the two had been missing.  “How in the world did you hear that?” 

Blaise shrugged, an elegant motion somehow on his slender frame.  “The paintings, of course.  I noticed that you seem to talk to them, so I decided it was worth a go.  Lady in Black eventually told me.”

It was shocking that Blaise had figured out about talking to the paintings when no one else had (save Harry), so Draco just sat a moment, unsure whether to feel threatened or stunned.  “Yes,” he finally said a bit warily, “we met up with the Troll.  What else did you get out of Lady in Black?”

Another shrug, and Blaise looked back to his book with patented disinterest.  “That was it.”  And he stopped speaking. 

This was too good to be true, so Draco stood up, straightening his spine despite the fact that the scars on his back and chest still ached slightly.  “If you’re going to ask why Harry looks like a zombie-!!” he started to rant in fine form.

“I wasn’t,” Blaise interrupted, completely cool.  One dark brow lifted as he glanced up from his book.

“Oh.”  Draco deflated.  “Well, he’s sort of…worn out.  Ill, really.  He just needs to sleep.”

“Sounds fine by me.  He’ll have an easy time of it, too – classes for tomorrow have been canceled,” Blaise informed Draco with a knowing little smile. 

This was news.  “Where did you hear that?”

Blaise just shrugged, still smiling his enigmatic, charming little smile, and slid further down in bed to read another page.  It seemed that Blaise was perhaps more sly than people gave him credit for – or at least he was more well-connected. 

Harry reappeared from the bathroom not long after, and pretty much crashed on his bed, not even bothering to draw the curtains.  Somehow he remembered to take the glasses off his face, but it was obviously a near thing.  He was instantly sleeping soundly, sprawled out on his bed and snoring softly.  Blaise, too, had rolled over and put his book away, drawing the green curtains around his bed to tuck himself away for the night.

At long last, Draco picked up his pajamas, taking his turn in the bathroom, quietly closing the door behind him.  This was what he’d been dreading: when Madame Pomfrey had taken a look at his scars, he’d either closed his eyes or look away, not wanting to see.  He’d still caught glimpse of his chest, the scars an eerie silver highlighted by raw, angry red.  “Draco,” the memory of her soft, infinitely gentle voice still echoed in his head, full of regret that stung worse than his scars, “You have to get used to them.  They’re not going to fade, dear, I’m sorry.”  At the time, he’d managed to hold back his tears, reminding himself that he was a Malfoy, and they could mask anything. 

Now, however, as he shed his robes, he couldn’t hide the pit of despair that opened up beneath his feet and unstopped the flow of tears at his eyes.  Facing him in the mirror was a small boy with pale hair, a slim frame, and silver eyes that matched the vicious tracing of magical scars on his torso.  Magic could heal many wounds, but those created by magic itself were another matter – those stayed.  The fact that Draco had exacerbated them didn’t help, and now it was only thanks to a painkilling draught that he wasn’t hurting all over.  Even with it, he could trace the flaring lines on his back by feel alone. 

The sight of them was…ugly…and even if Draco weren’t vane, they were attached to memories of helplessness and ridicule that dragged him down with clawing fingers.  Every time he saw them, felt them, _remembered_ them, he thought of Crabbe and Goyle as they made his life miserable and took away his magic.  Anyone else who saw these marks would know that, too – that the Malfoy heir had been belittled and magically bound like some common dog.   

Draco found himself crying softly, hunched over and face ducked so that he couldn’t see himself in the mirror anymore, hot tears cutting paths down his face and somehow even getting stuck in the fine wisps of his hair.  He tried to tell himself that crying was just plain annoying, and scrubbed angrily at his eyes, but it didn’t really help.  All he managed to do was fortify himself long enough to change into his night-clothes and sneak back to bed. 

He thought he was all right as he drew the curtains, but somehow, being safely alone on his bed just started the process all over again, and he couldn’t stop crying long enough to even grab his wand and cast a muffling charm.  He covered his mouth with his hand to try and hold back the noises as much as he could, pressing his palm to his mouth and growing frustrated as tears trickled now over his fingers. 

The words just kept echoing in his head: these scars were his forever now.  They would never go away. 

~^~

Harry had been somewhere deep in the darkest quagmire of unconsciousness when he felt something pulling at his shoulder.  Uncle Vernon waking him up was never a good thing, so he jolted into awareness as fast as he possibly could, jerking.

Blaise pulled back, surprise written on his fine, dark features.  “Blimey, mate, do you always wake up like that?” he asked.  Harry had gone from motionless and sleepy to moving in a heartbeat, actually flipping right over so that he was facing Blaise, as if preparing to confront a hex.  For a moment, the dark-skinned young boy had actually wondered if Harry would attack.

Still bleary-eyed but nonetheless embarrassed, Harry relaxed, rubbing his eyes and slouching against one elbow on the bed.  “Sorry.  What is it, Blaise?”

If nothing else, Blaise recovered almost instantly from practically anything.  Already, he looked idle and calm, but he kept his voice considerately quiet as he answered, “It’s Malfoy.  He’s over there crying.  I went over to check on him myself first, but he threatened to hex me.  I figured you know him better.”

“I know him better?” Harry repeated dazedly, but Blaise merely raised one eyebrow at him.  “All…all right.  Let me get my glasses,” Harry gave in, and was soon maneuvering his sleep-laden self-off the bed, slipping his glasses on slightly crookedly.  By then, he could hear the crying himself from the neighboring bed, and caught Blaise’s worried look before he shot the dark-skinned boy an encouraging thumbs-up and turned to the closed curtains of Draco’s bed. 

Harry was honestly still a wreck, but if Draco was crying, something was definitely up.  So far, from all he knew about the blonde-haired little aristocrat, he had his emotions under strict control for just a kid – for an adult even.  Harry understood not wanting to cry in front of other people, so he ducked past the curtains respectfully.  “Draco,” he said, more tiredly than formally. 

“Blaise, I said-!”  Draco stopped his rant mid-yell as he jerked around to see Harry’s mop of brown hair and glasses instead of Blaise’s smooth dark features.  Draco’s face was wet from crying, his eyes clearly red even in the low lighting of the canopied bed; he sat huddled up, knees clasped to his chest defensively.  “Potter,” he spat, sounding more like a wet cat than anything more intimidating, “What do you want?”

Too tired to be overly put-out by Draco’s tone (especially when he was honestly getting used to the snarky side of Malfoy), Harry simply crawled past the drapery and onto the foot of the bed.  He was immune to Draco’s outraged glare because it had nothing on Aunt Petunia’s stares.  “I want to know what’s up,” Harry said simply, settling himself in a posture roughly mirroring Draco’s, although with more slouching than tenseness.  He fell silent, resting his chin on his knees patiently. 

Draco hissed in a furious breath and prepared to sling back a retort, but his throat caught him up with a wet little hiccup instead, and then there were tears again.  Embarrassed and ashamed of himself beyond belief, he buried his head behind his knees and desperately wished to just disappear, or at least that the tears would.  “I-I-I’m _fine_!” he finally managed to stuttered out angrily, “I’m just…”

“Don’t say you’ve got something in your eye.  I _really_ won’t believe you.”

The Pureblood boy lifted his eye, reddened eyes narrowed, but Harry didn’t actually seem to be making fun of him – although there was a hesitant smile saying that the other boy was trying to lighten the mood.  It was actually a rather appreciated effort, and Draco sighed.  “You really want to know why I’m crying?  You really want to know why the funny little Pureblood boy is crying his eyes out in the middle of the night?  Why?”

The confrontational tone made Harry sit back a bit.  He was all knobby corners and angles, and two of those knobby points lifted in a shrug.  “Dunno.  I guess it’s just normal to want to know why someone is crying.  Hermione says I’m utter pants at comforting people, though, but I’ve got to be better than Ron.”

The mental image of Ron Weasley trying to comfort someone tricked Draco into emitting a watery bark of laughter.  “So I’m not spoiled for choice, am I?”

“Not since you threatened to hex Blaise, no.”  Harry rubbed at his eyes, bumping his glasses up his nose in the process.  “He probably would have been loads better to talk to than me.”

Draco snorted.  “How could I hex him?  I don’t even have my wand.  It’s on my nightstand.”

Perhaps Harry was nodding off where he was sitting, because he merely bobbed his head and hummed some sort of positive response, eyelids falling shut in a slow blink that threatened to stay closed.  But just when Draco thought he might be off the hook, Harry asked with quiet, gentle patience, “Tell me what’s going on, Draco.  You’re stuck with me.  Maybe I can help.”

“I doubt it,” Draco snapped back, then on a vicious impulse bulled onwards, “can you remove magical scars?  Pomfrey can’t.”  Even though he’d only said two sentences, he was left panting, feeling a masochistic desire for Harry’s derision – for someone else to look at him and call him weak, for someone else to laugh and smirk at how the Pureblood prat had fallen. 

Harry blinked and his brows beetled as the truth of the topic finally came to light, and he straightened his glasses absently.  “The Magicseal scars?”

“Yes, the Magicseal scars.  What else?”

“That’s what you’re crying over?”

“Yes, because…!”  Suddenly, the furious fire left Draco – his anger was smashed out, leaving only coldness and emptiness behind.  He sagged, and heard himself say in a pathetic whimper, “…Because Pomfrey says they won’t go away.  You can’t get rid of magically inflicted scars like you can normal ones.  There.  That’s why I’m crying like a little girl.”

Harry sat up a little bit straighter and blinked as if trying with renewed vigor not to fall asleep, but a look of very Gryffindor determination fell over his features.  “Come on, Daco, you weren’t crying like a little girl.”

“I was, too.”

“Fine, you were.”  When Draco’s glare returned full-force, Harry rolled his eyes with a deep sigh and gave up, “Look, I’m not arguing about whether you’re acting girly, Draco.  I’m going to tell you that you don’t need to be…sad, or ashamed, or whatever…about those scars.”

Resentfulness burned anew in Draco’s gut, and he pulled back behind his knees again like a moody hawk pulling its head in against its breast.  “That’s fine for you to say, Potter, you don’t have scars for people to stare and gawk at.”

“See, Draco – I do,” Harry countered, and lifted a hand to pull back his messy bangs.  Revealed beneath was the pale zigzag, Voldemort’s on scar upon his skin. 

Immediately, Draco wished he could swallow his own words.  “I…!  I didn’t mean…!”

“I know, Draco.  But now you see that I _do_ know a bit about scars.  And yours aren’t so bad.  At least I don’t think so.”  Harry lowered his hand again, now sitting cross-legged and sagging over his own lap a bit.  Still, he was an attentive listening, watching Draco with no evident urges to get up and leave.  In fact, he almost seemed to want to be there, and through his ability to sense Harry’s magic a bit, Draco could detect nothing like annoyance or temper. 

So Draco swallowed thickly and rubbed at his eyes a bit more, looking away and taking a deep breath.  “I hate them.  I hate them because they remind me who did this to me.”  When Harry didn’t say anything but just continued to watch like a patient statue, Draco felt brave enough to go on and voice his insecurities a bit more.  “Even if they didn’t bloody hurt, these scars are massive, so I’ll never be able to go shirtless anywhere, that’s for sure.”

“All the fun thing require shirts anyway,” Harry waved that off.

Draco cast him a glance, looking down his nose at him.  “Like what?”

“You know,” Harry tried to elaborate, with his usual verbal skill and a vague wave of his hands, “things like Quidditch!”

“And?” Draco arched an eyebrow. 

“Um…well…”

“Quidditch is all you’ve got, isn’t it?”

“Shove off it, Malfoy, I came over here to make sure you were okay, not have you tease me,” grumbled Harry, but without any real rancor.  It was such a normal interaction for the two that it got Draco to relax further, and the tears were starting to dry on his face. 

“So long as these scars are healing, I can’t even play Quidditch, but I’ll keep that in mind, Potter,” Draco allowed, maintaining aloofness by focusing on his pillow while he talked in his best haughty tone.  His voice was still a bit wobbly and caught on some sounds, but he wasn’t crying anymore, and even the ache of his scars had died completely after Harry had sat with him for a bit.  The Gryffindor was almost unbelievably untroubled, even though he’d been awoken from a dead-sleep to go sit with a Slytherin brat who was crying and waspish in turns.  As Harry had proved that first time in the Slytherin common-room, everything was like water off a duck’s back to him when he needed it to be.  “And you know, it’s rather annoying to constantly be thinking about who might see me if I’m changing, with scars like these-!” 

But Draco turned his head, and found that Harry had quietly tipped over and fallen asleep.  For a flash, Draco was outraged at being so ignored, but just as quickly he felt a surge of remorse as he remembered what kind of a day Harry had had: Draco was complaining about his scars aching, but Harry had knocked the stuffing right out of himself with his magical-off-switch stunt.  He’d been exhausted even before they’d arrived at the Infirmary, and now here Draco was, causing him to miss sleep. 

For a moment, Draco was unsure what to do.  He definitely wasn’t enough of an utter burk to wake up the brown-haired boy, but he couldn’t just have him sleep at the end of his bed.  Could he?  He didn’t see any other options presenting themselves, and the bed was big anyway.  Deciding that he could accept this, Draco cast about until he found the folded throw, which he gathered up and awkwardly dragged over Harry, who stirred at the faintest touch.  “Hey, hey, settled down!  It’s just a blanket, for Merlin’s sake,” Draco muttered, and was relieved when Potter blinked a few times (disjointedly, like an owl) and then nodded off again.  Potter honestly had some rather odd habits, so Draco just added ‘waking up as if struck by a stinging hex’ to the list. 

Then, feeling sleepy himself now that he had no more urge to cry, Malfoy crawled under his own blankets and swiftly sunk into sleep.  It was, remarkably, dreamless, except for a vague sensation of another presence being with him so he wasn’t alone. 

~^~

Thus Hogwarts got an unofficial holiday: the Troll had caused quite a ruckus, and the efforts made to chase it (i.e. Severus and Lucius blowing down doors) had resulted in considerable damage to the building.  Usually, Hogwarts mended itself, but it was doing that rather slowly this time, for reasons no one knew.  Dumbledore merely said that the magic of the castle had been overworked and strained, and needed first to recover from the hex before it could work on fixing the castles mortar and stones.  The professors, therefore, would put their personal efforts and magic into reversing the damage, and meanwhile, the students got the next _two_ days off – and then had the weekend.  Everyone quickly forgot how traumatized they were by the troll and instead raised their voices in youthful celebration. 

In the room of Draco, Blaise, and Harry, things were more quiet.  Blaise had slipped out like a little shadow he was to find out the specifics on their new, Troll-induced holiday, no doubt noting that Harry’s curtains were still back and the bed beyond it empty.  Whatever he noticed (which was always more than people expected), Blaise made no comment, instead coming back in and returning to his bed. 

By then, Draco was awake.  He had been stretching in bed just enough to unexpectedly kick something, and immediately jerked away, sitting up and staring at the foot of his bed.  Harry, having been prodded in the stomach by a foot, woke up, too.  As when Blaise had awoken him, he rocketed to consciousness with a definite start, pushing himself up onto his elbows beneath the blanket thrown over him.  He wasn’t as defensive as he had been last time, however: with Draco, he felt the steady thrum of familiar magic, so even before he was properly awake, he knew that he wasn’t with Uncle Vernon or any other Dursley.  In fact, having a Resonant nearby calmed down Harry so much that he only _half_ woke up, eyes blearily blinking, and then he collapsed gently back down to the bed-covers again. 

“Potter!” Draco hissed, unsure what to do with the other boy on his bed now that it was daylight.  The Gryffindor boy even still had his glasses on, although they were sitting awfully crookedly on his face after having slept in them.

Suddenly, Blaise’s dark head popped in through the curtains.  Without preamble or obvious surprise, he looked at Harry and asked, “Are his eyes still that odd pale color?”

“I haven’t really checked-  Wait, how do you know about that?” Draco asked suspiciously, sitting up the rest of the way. 

“I saw him last night,” Blaise blinked, as if this should have been clear, “I mean, it wasn’t all that bright or anything, but I could see.”

Draco deflated a little, looking between the dark-skinned boy and Potter as he deflated.  “Oh.  Well, I haven’t really checked…”  Draco rocked forward on his knees to presumably lift one of Potter’s eyes open.

This time, Blaise looked startled, and reached forward to grab Draco’s slender arm with a swift hand.  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Blaise warned, his intelligent eyes wide, “He wakes up like a snake!”

Well, that was amusing, seeing that Harry was a Parselmouth.  Draco didn’t understand the worry, however, and his pale brows slanted down above his eyes as he archly extracted his hand and replied, “No he doesn’t.  I just kicked him awake a moment ago.”

Blaise was looked a bit bemused, a rare look for him – usually, he was a smooth as a kid his age could be.  “And what did he do?”

“Jumped a bit,” Draco shrugged, taking the conversation time to crawl forward over his comforter until he was crouched more or less next to Harry.  He found that, strangely, the closer he got, the calmer he felt – now that he was paying attention, he was pretty sure that it was because he was closer to the constant, gentle purr of Potter’s magic.  If Potter were awake, he’d deny it, but since he was asleep and Blaise was unlikely to notice…  Draco happily sat down close enough to almost touch Harry’s knee through the blanket.  “But then he just went back to sleep.”

Instead of commenting, Blaise just eyed Draco a moment, and then smiled a mysterious, Cheshire smile and gave up on his questioning.  In fact, he stopped being nosy entirely.  “All right then.  I’m just going to get dressed and see what everyone’s got planned for the Troll Holiday – we’ve got a long weekend.  Surely someone will have found something fun to do with the free time, if not the Slytherins, then maybe the Gryffindors will have something crazy up their sleeves to pass the time.”

Bemused by the sudden cessations of Blaise’s questioning (as well as company), Draco looked askance at him with beetled brows, answering distractedly, “Of course they’ll do something crazy – they’re Gryffindors.”

“Catch you later then,” Blaise waved his hand and disappeared from the part in the curtains.  He was almost as small and light as Harry and Draco, and moved with a catlike quietness that made it nearly impossible to tell that he was still in the room until the sounds of him opening the bathroom door could be heard. 

Leaving Draco wondering if he’d missed something, or if he’d underestimated just how astute Blaise Zabini was. 

And Harry just kept sleeping through it all, still rung out from his feat of the day before but content to snooze where he was warm and felt safe.

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figure that the fic will be stronger if I put some canon in there...but the thought of writing about the Sorcerer's Stone honestly bores me to death XP So be aware that if I _do_ write about that, and Voldemort/Quirrell trying to get it, everything will be _very_ far from the plot in the book/movies!


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is still sleepy; Severus is still worried. Thankfully, Blaise is still more astute than people give him credit for...
> 
> Snape goes to check on his two most interesting students, and there's a bit more snark and a bit more Parseltongue before the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a longer chapter (at least, my page-count was seven instead of six) - enjoy!

~^~

It was like a snow-day, minus the snow, and only Harry was not in the condition to enjoy it. 

Draco had stayed with him in their room even after he could practically hear everyone shrieking with joy inside and outside, playing and being lazy.  The older students were probably on brooms, and maybe even some of the younger ones, if the professors were allowing that.  Despite how Draco should have been jealous of that, he found himself quite content to just sit on his bed while Harry continued to sleep on it.  There was always homework to be done anyway, the young Malfoy told himself, and he sat back against his headboard and read one of his Potions textbooks. 

In reality, he just found it incredibly calming to sit where Harry was, but Draco wasn’t going to admit to that – not even to himself.  Maybe he also felt a little spark of totally unreasonable protectiveness.  Either way, Draco sat so that at least one foot stuck out far enough that it was haloed in the curve of Potter’s blanket-shrouded body, so that he noticed when the other boy moved. 

“Your friends are going to worry about you, you know,” Draco spoke scoldingly, glancing past his textbook.  Harry’s eyes were still closed, his hair a veritable storm of dark-brown tufts, and part of Draco wanted to wake him up just to see if his eyes were still eerily pale or if they’d darkened up again.  “The Weasel probably wants a partner in crime for something or other.  Granger just probably wants you to do homework with her.”  Draco frowned as he realized that that was just what he was doing.  He put the book down, nudging what he assumed to be Harry’s stomach with his toes.  “I thought Gryffindors were renowned for being unstoppable balls of energy.  Like, you could cut off a limb and they’d still be running around.”

“Di’n’t cut off a limb,” Draco was surprised to hear a mumble, as Harry squirmed deeper beneath the blanket thrown over him, “Cut off my magic, Malfoy.”

The grouchy retort was somewhat lackluster, so Draco just took it in stride, snorting.  “That’s still weird, you know, that you can do that.”

Harry just made a murmured noise, and seemed to drift back to sleep.  Instead of rousing him again, Draco settled back behind his book, trying to deal with the worry that continued to froth quietly behind his breastbone.  Since entering Hogwarts and falling under the vicious eyes of Crabbe and Goyle, Draco had gotten used to worrying about no one but himself (and maybe the paintings) – he’d also gotten used to none of his peers worrying about _him_.  Now, though, he was gripped by this emotion quite without his own consent, and wondered whether to blame it on Resonance. 

Or whether he simply worried about Potter because the Gryffindor Golden Boy wasn’t such a bad bloke after all. 

~^~

Snape was grading papers and trying – and failing – to keep his mind off one Lucius Malfoy.

After this last…talk…with the blonde-haired man, Severus was not entirely sure where his mind was.  Or, rather, he knew perfectly well where his mind was, but logically knew that it should be elsewhere.  It was neither right nor smart for Severus to be thinking about Lucius’s hands and how tempting it had felt to have his personal space summarily destroyed. 

Lucius was, first and foremost, married, something that the Potions Master took pains not to forget (even when Lucius complained bitterly about how little he and Narcissa got along).  Secondly, the Malfoy patriarch was _dangerous_.  Even in the playful atmosphere of the night before, Lucius had made that clear: “You’re the lord of secrets, Severus – I’ve always respected that about you – but I think I’ll get them out of you eventually,” Lucius had said with the patient sincerity of the serpents he loved so much.  The memory made Snape narrow his dark eyes, quill poised until it dripped ink, bringing him back to reality with a curse.  Damn Lucius for picking now to suddenly smudge the line between friendship and…something else…

A knock came at his door, a rather more bold knock than he got from most students.  Snape lifted his head even as he put the quill aside, wondering who it could be.  He knew instantly that it wasn’t Lucius, because he couldn’t sense his familiar magic.  In fact, he sensed very little magic at all – just enough for a student.  “Come in,” he barked as he came to the conclusion that no adult wizard was disturbing his precious grading time. 

A dark figure with chocolate-colored skin immediately popped in, sliding with quick, almost ermine grace into the room.  Blaise Zabini, Severus recalled the name after a moment, remembering the boy for his smooth temperament, level head, and the fact that he was the third-smallest first-year after Potter and Draco.  “Yes, Zabini?  Not out enjoying your impromptu day off, are you?” he immediately addressed the boy in his usual, menacing tone.  If this was some sort of practical joke, he’d nip the fun in the bud. 

Zabini wasn’t intimidated, however, his face barely flickering as he simply stood where he was.  At least he was quiet and polite, so Severus lowered his hackles a little bit, and finally pushed his grading aside to fold his long hands in front of him.  “Speak, unless you merely came here for silence.” 

Apparently he had not, because the dark-skinned boy came and perched on one of the chairs in front of Snape’s desk and immediately spoke, “Potter isn’t all right, is he?”

The suddenness of the question – coupled with its touchy subject – had Severus’s spine straightening despite itself.  “How is he?”  The imperious question was out of his mouth before he could even think on it. 

The intensity of Snape’s gaze finally made the boy jump a bit, but he was remarkably astute for his age, and interpreted the look to be devoid of real anger.  “He was bloody tired when he came in, and is actually sleeping on Malfoy’s bed now, still.”

Unexpected emotions twisted somewhere in Severus’s chest, and his expression grew shuttered as he hid him.  He wasn’t surprised at all that the two were sharing space (regardless of the reason), because he remembered the familiar pull that existed naturally between Resonants.  It was simple: each Resonant balanced the other, and it felt comforting, so it was not surprising that Resonants learned to like being close to each other.  In fact, with crystalline clarity even now, Severus remembered wanting to be _in Lucius’s bed,_ but that was neither here nor there.  His relationship with Lucius had always been complicated.  “How did he end up there?” he asked, voice neutral except for an exasperated sigh. 

“Malfoy was upset.  He didn’t want to talk to me, but he talked to Harry – until Harry sort of tipped over and started snoring, at least.”

“Hmm,” Severus made an unreadable noise, thinking on this.  His mind went from the curious and intimate relationships of Resonants to the strange topic of Harry’s magic-snuffing.  The boy had seemed a wreck when he’d left the Infirmary, so Severus felt it was his responsibility to check on him now.  He stood abruptly.  “I’ll go check on him.  Are your fellow housemates all out enjoying themselves?”

Blaise saw right through the question, looking up at the forebodingly tall professor and replying easily, “If you walk into the common-room now, it’ll be dead-quiet.  The Weasley twins are setting up a show on the pitch, and anyone who is anyone wants to see if they blow themselves up.”

While Severus’s professorial side nagged at him to go and break up that little free-for-all before it ended in losses of limbs, but surely someone like McGonagall would notice anything before it got bad.  Besides, the notorious Weasley twins were useful in Severus’s book in that they weeded out the weak: anyone foolish enough to fall prey to their pranks deserved it.  And if the twins blew each other up, then they weren’t smart enough to live.  Severus was cruel but practical that way.  “Are you coming, Zabini?”

The boy had followed him to the door but had then turned the other way, raising one eyebrow around his chocolate eyes.  “Actually, if it’s all right with you, I’m going to join the fun.  It’s a day off, after all.” 

Narrowing his eyes as he tried to read beyond the simple words, Severus finally nodded.  “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Zabini,” he said in as close to a courteous tone as he ever got.

Zabini was already walking off, calling back with a little wave, “No problem, sir.” 

~^~

Draco had gotten up and dressed, at least, by the time there was a knock at the door to their room.  He jumped, and as if his surprise was connected to Potter by an invisible wire, the sleeping Gryffindor twitched, too, and actually started struggling his way to wakefulness – something he hadn’t really tried to do all morning.  “Yes?” Draco called, wondering why anyone would be knocking.  Blaise would just walk in, wouldn’t he? 

Instead, the door opened, and the Potions Master walked in, dark eyes serious but alert.  “Potter still groggy?” he asked without preamble, bluntness being his forte. 

“Nnnoo,” came the slow, barely understandable reply, and both professor and student turned to see Harry struggling into a sitting position.  His poor glasses were practically hanging off the end of his nose, one arm not even hooked behind his ear anymore, and if his eyes were open at all it was nearly impossible to tell. 

Severus paused only a moment before making up his mind and striding over with a crack of his robes moving with him.  “As far as lies go, that one was atrocious, Potter.  Ten points from Gryffindor.”

That got Harry’s eyes to open up, but only to bare slits, which weren’t very useful for glaring.  He’d also made it far enough to sit with his legs hanging over the side of Draco’s bed, but was precariously close to toppling right off onto the floor now.  “Ten points!?” he slurred out with a squeak of incredulity while Snape merely circled around in front of him and Draco stared, “But, Professor…!”

“I’ll give you ten points back if you sit still,” Snape offered up, a wave of his wand summoning a chair for himself so that he could sit down in front of the two boys.  Draco was clearly still a bit blindsided by this sudden visit, and was staring at Harry because he couldn’t believe how quickly the boy had suddenly gotten up when he’d been prodding him all morning with far less success.  Severus noticed his godson’s flummoxed look.  “What is it, Draco?” he asked impatiently. 

“How did you get him to wake up?!  I’ve kicked him three times this morning, and he just twitches and rolls over!” Draco couldn’t help but explode. 

Severus couldn’t help but snort derisively, but he _did_ deign to explain some of the finer points of Resonance: “Of course I could wake him when you couldn’t.  I’m assuming that you were relaxing quite effectively this morning, with no classes, and being your Resonant, Potter would sense that.  Or have you not realized that you feel each other’s emotions?” 

Harry barely had the cognizance to be surprised, but he still blinked; Draco kept his expression more hidden, showing no response. 

“I, on the other hand, am someone new,” Severus went on as he brought out his wand, drawling, “Were you surprised at my arrival?”

He’d asked Draco, but Harry answered out of reflex, “Yes.”  Everyone stared at him, and belatedly, the exhausted Harry Potter realized that he’d said something strange. “What?”

“Explaining anything to you in this state would be an exercise in futility,” Severus judged unrepentantly, flicking his wand and murmuring a spell not unlike some of the diagnostic spells Pomfrey used.  He might only be a Master of Potions, but Snape had picked up quite a few other useful skills during the years.  “Tell me now, Potter, exactly how many times you’ve done this before.”

“Lots-” came the immediate but not particularly useful answer. 

“Yes, but how many times were the results as bad as this?” Severus interrupted, pushing down his annoyance at the recalcitrance of children, “Or am I to assume that your aunt, uncle, and cousin were not more disburted by this lethargy than they were by your magic?”

Unexpectedly, Harry’s gaze focused and his expression hardened.  There was something more flinty about him all of a sudden as he met Snape’s gaze unflinchingly, and Draco unaccountably shivered as something itching and cold took up residence between his shoulder-blades.  “Potter!” Draco now growled, but was ignored. 

“Professor Snape, the Dursleys wouldn’t notice if I fell off the roof and broke my arm unless it meant I couldn’t weed the garden,” Harry said in a low and succinct voice, a voice far too old for him and as brittle and cutting as glass. 

Severus’s poised wand twitched, but that was the only reaction he let slip through his control.  In reality, shock was coiling in his gut.  He forced his voice to sound as low and calm as before, maybe even with an edge of typical impatience, “How many times, Potter?”

With a resigned sigh, Potter gave in, lifting one hand: his thumb was tucked against his palm, showing four fingers.  Four.  “I’ve done it loads more to a lesser degree.  When I go this far, Uncle Vernon tends to get mad at my sleeping in, and its harder to run from Dudley.”

Severus arched one brow as the diagnostic spell slowly cycled through; it was neither as precise nor as swift as the Medi-witch’s work, but it would do for now.  “And you run from Dudley often?”

This time, Harry merely huffed a breath and then pointedly sealed his lips.  His talkativeness had ended, apparently.  He also wobbled a bit then, losing his balance, and it was only because Draco was there that he didn’t topple over.  Severus’s free hand shot out to grab his left shoulder while Draco propped up his right.  Harry looked sleepy again. 

When the spell finished, it showed mostly bodily reactions to extreme strain and stress – something that Severus would have attributed to the Troll alone if he hadn’t known better.  He reached forward to grab the boy’s chin, growling when Harry wriggled, “I said sit still, Potter.  You’ve not only done something considered impossible, but something very dangerous, and despite all of my many flaws in teaching, I would rather prefer not to have a student die on my watch.”  Potter’s eyes were their normal color again – hopefully a good sign.  Severus’s expression twisted into an even deeper scowl than usual.  “I am still tempted to just turn you over to Madame Pomfrey.”

Draco surprised him by piping up, “Why don’t you?”  It was a sincerely-asked question, and beneath the usual Malfoy aloofness, it was clear that Draco was worried. 

Bothersomely, Severus wasn’t sure how to answer.  It wasn’t the time or place, was it, to mention that the Headmaster had a well-founded fear of Harry following in Voldemort’s footsteps.  “Some secrets are best kept that way,” was all he said, enigmatically and irritably.  Secrets indeed.  At least Lucius wasn’t around this time.  “I’m going to check your magical core, Potter, and then you – and Draco, I suppose, since you’re still inseparable – will follow me to my offices so I can brew something to bring you back to the metaphorical world of the living.  If I have to tell you not to fidget one more time, I will consider those ten Gryffindor points mine indefinitely.”

The succinctness of Severus’s threats and orders never failed to see results, and he was pleased to note that Harry sat quite still as he murmured another spell, this time gently bringing his wand to touch the boy’s sternum through his nightshirt.  As he drew his wand back, a glow followed it, like a magnetic egg of light.  Harry’s eyes widened, sleepiness fleeing for a moment. 

Draco stared at his companion’s shock expression.  “What?  Have you never seen your own magical core before?”

“Hush, Draco,” Severus chided him, suspecting now that Harry hadn’t.  The more things he heard about Harry’s home-life, the more he suspected.  “And, strictly speaking, this is only a representation.  Tearing out another wizards magical core is equivalent to magically castrating them.”

Both Harry and Draco (who, despite their youth, apparently knew what ‘castrating’ meant) turned a bit green around the gills, but all were focused on the glowing sphere hovering between Shape’s wand and Harry’s chest.  Over all, it was a glowing white, smooth and pale as shifting cream, but other colors burned and surfaced.  Whatever Snape saw, he looked displeased…but he always looked displeased.  With a shake of his wand, the image dissipated, making Harry and Draco jump before frowning in disappointment.  Snape was already standing.  “Come on.  There’s no way either of you are capable of enjoying this time off, at least with Mr. Potter so out of commission.”

“I’m not out of commission!” Harry argued even as he slipped to his feet, just remembering to add on when Snape turned a customary glare his way, “Sir.” 

The fact that the boy swayed a bit and Draco squawked and had to support him again rather ruined the announcement.  Snape sneered more out of amusement than anything else, “I’ll believe that when I see it.  Draco, kindly ensure that Mr. Potter doesn’t bumble into anything.”  With that, Snape turned and swept out ahead of them. 

~^~

“Er…Professor, isn’t your office that way?” Draco asked.  Harry was vacillating between grogginess and actual exhaustion, but thankfully, the pale-haired Slytherin boy had gotten over any sort of embarrassment and inserted himself under Harry’s arm.  Both were small boys, but Harry was just ever-so-slightly taller, making it a perfect fit. 

“Yes, but the materials I want are in my personal store, Draco,” Severus explained as he mercilessly kept walking.  Despite his grim façade, however, he looked back often to be sure that both boys were keeping up okay.  “Besides, I can’t help but notice that every time Potter ends up in my offices, Cerule gets out.”

Harry had the good grace to flush in embarrassment.  “Sorry, Professor.  I…don’t remember doing it the second time.”

“At least it behaves when you let it out,” Draco put in his two cents, and both boys missed how Snape rolled his eyes skyward: Draco still sounded far more interested than afraid when he talked about Cerule, even though the serpent had nearly eaten him and had most certainly hypnotized him in their first encounter. 

The one upside to Harry’s unusual tiredness was that he was subdued, for once, without that bubbling Gryffindor energy that so tried Snape’s patience during classes.  The boy’s voice was sensible but quiet as he replied to Draco, “I told him to…well, that you – and Professor Snape – were not for eating.”

That impressed Draco, and he stared blatantly at Harry’s face as he declared, “That’s bloody wicked, Potter.”

“Er…thanks?”

Too late, Snape realized that Cerule wasn’t the only snake that he owned, thanks to Lucius.  As he opened the doors and led both boys past his wards, he recalled Cineris, his fire-snake.  He nearly walked right back out again, and would have, except he’d been serious about brewing a potion for Potter – the boy needed it, and even Poppy wouldn’t have this particular brew on hand.  All of this ducking around and hiding secrets from everyone was getting tiresome…  “If you two can manage it, please refrain from letting any more serpents out in the immediate future.  I can promise you, Cineris’s temperament is far more dangerous than Cerule’s,” Snape warned in his most threatening, thunderous voice. 

His tone did the trick: both boys looked a little wide-eyed and nodded rapidly.  They even listened and took a seat as Severus started brewing.  Eventually, Draco relaxed enough that he offered to help, being a curious and quick student anyway.  Potter…Potter wandered around, and Severus considered hexing his rear end to a chair.  However, since this was more alertness than Potter had shown this whole time, and since the boy was quiet and not touching anything, he focused on brewing instead and keeping Draco from cutting what he should be crushing. 

The whole time, Cineris watched from his terrarium, his inky black length hidden half by the cool, black coals and half lit by the glowing hot ones.  Where the snake’s glistening head nestled amidst the heated side, it parted its jaws to reveal a mouth like a red-hot furnace, hissing.  As Harry walked past, the snake did what it always did: grew more temperamental and struck at the glass.  Snape was entirely used to the sound of coals being tossed about and the snake hissing thinly in warning – what he was not used to, and made his spine crawl involuntarily, was the sharp syllable that Harry hissed back in return, like a rebuke. 

Willing his unease to go away, Snape looked over to see Draco unabashedly watching the Potter boy.  “Eyes on your work, Draco.  I want cut Hedgewood, not fingertips,” he got his godson’s attention.  Draco blushed and pretended that he’d been paying attention all along, but still glanced up every time a sibilant sound escaped Potter’s lips.  Harry had initially jumped in surprise and glared at the cranky fire-snake, but was now talking to it in earnest, hushed tones.  He still seemed to remember Severus’s aversion to the sound, because he was clearly lowering the volume until it could barely be heard – unfortunately for Draco.  “Focus, Draco!”

When Severus finally set Draco to monotonously stirring the small cauldron, he turned back to the other side of the room only to find Potter walking hesitantly up to him.  The boy shifted his feet uneasily, looking down at them and seeming to realize for the first time that he was not only barefoot but still in sleep-wear.  He pushed that side to look up at Snape, however, and ask, “Um…Professor?”

“Spit it out, Potter, if you have a question.  Beating around the bush suits neither of us.”

“Okay…er…”  Harry looked back over his shoulder at Cineris, lifting a hand to push his glasses up his nose before finally getting to the point, “I don’t know if it means anything, but your snake, Cineris, says that he’s sensing something in the castle that shouldn’t be here…  I know you don’t like Parseltongue, Professor, but I asked why your snake was so…violent.”

Unsure whether to be wary or cautiously curious, Snape acquired a guarded expression and merely looked down his nose, ordering, “Continue, Potter.”

“Are snakes like that very sensitive, Professor?” Harry asked instead.

It was odd to have someone who could talk to snakes, yet knew so little about them.  “Fire-snakes are very sensitive too temperature and environment, yes.  What are you getting at?”

“It’s just that Cineris is very irritated and nervous, and I could hardly talk any sense into him.  He kept saying that he sensed something,” Harry shrugged helplessly. 

Before Severus could think on a reply to that, Draco called out, “It turned purple!” 

That meant it was done.  Snape narrowed his eyes thoughtfully at Potter, and finally declared, “We will discuss this later, Potter.  Until then, kindly refrain from talking to snakes unless I am around to oversee.”

“Of course, sir,” Harry stuttered automatically, and then Draco was joining him again as Snape took over the last few steps in preparing the potion. 

Harry looked a little bit unsettled, thinking back to the swift babble of the fire-snake, and therefore was grateful for the distraction when the slim blonde boy came up to him, demanding with his usual cockiness, “So, what did you say to it, really?”

“Say to what?” Harry asked back, blinking.  He thought nervously to his recently conversation with Cineris, which had been so odd.  Most of his conversations with snakes were oddly soothing, generally being relaxed and polite as he treated the snakes with respect and they did the same to him in return. 

But Draco was thinking back further, oblivious to Cineris’s odd unease.  “Snape’s Pit Viper, of course.  Come on, you didn’t really just go up to it and say ‘Snape and Draco aren’t for snacking on,’ did you?” Draco scoffed, smirking. 

Harry’s face, however, was serious, and he looked away with something like embarrassment.  Draco pushed, his curiosity only growing, “Come on, Potter, spill.”

Finally, Harry took in a breath, Gyffindor courage showing through as he simply plowed forward.  He even smirked a bit as he caught sight of Draco’s naked interest.  “Do you really want to know what I said?”

“Of course, Potter!” Draco exclaimed, rolling his eyes like Harry was a simpleton for asking, “I was sitting there just about staring down the gullet of a snake bigger around than I am, and suddenly there’s just you _hissing_ over me.  Obviously I want to know what you said!”

 Draco’s tone was still cajoling and almost playful, but the reply he got was far more serious: Harry picked at his fingertips, thinking, clearly wanting to come up with the exact words.  Finally, he said, as if evenly replaying a thought from a Pensieve, “This is my friend.  Even if I have to tear you apart with my bare hands, you will not touch him.  I respect you, but I’ll _make_ you respect me if that’s what it takes to keep safe the ones that mean something to me.”

Severus had been subtly listening in, and lifted his head from his work now to watch the two boys, seeing the calm, serious look on Harry’s face – a remarkably thoughtful face for an impulsive Gryffindor, for a son of James Potter.  Listening to the way he said that, to the way he coolly fisted his hands at the end, Severus knew that Harry had meant every word of that.  It was unsettling, how easily Harry connected with every serpent he came into contact with, but that was now balanced out by how furiously loyal he was to the non-serpentine companions in his life. 

Even Draco – a Malfoy, with all of the verbal flexibility and smoothness that entailed – was impressed speechless. 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to the people who wanted some more Sev/Lucius time - I'm getting there! This chapter actually went everywhere I did _not_ expect it to go, and that bit with Cineris was _totally_ not what I meant to do. It will fit the plot I've got in my head, though ;)


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus is called to the Headmaster's office, and the plot thickens...
> 
> Oh, and Lucius turns up again!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the day-late update! *bad author, bad* Since I make you guys wait two weeks between updates, I should really try and stick to my schedule a bit better :P

~^~

Barely had Snape watched the curious pair of Harry and Draco leave to head back to their dorms (Harry looking a little more chipper and a bit less like death warmed over after the potion Snape had given him) than he was being summoned to Dumbledore’s office.  The Potions Master could only hope that the topic of conversation would not be about the resident Boy Who Lived, because Snape knew almost more than he cared to about the boy by now.  ‘ _Wandless magic…an affinity for snakes that goes far beyond Parseltongue, I’d imagine…and the impossible ability to turn his magic off like a Muggle switch, however inadvisable that is_ ,’ Snape catalogued dourly in his head as he walked to the Headmaster’s office, deducing points from a few students along the way as they celebrated their impromptu holiday with just a bit too much enthusiasm.  Minerva saw him doing it once, and gave him a bit of a glare as if in the hopes of him giving the raucous dunderheads some leeway, but Snape pretended not to see her.  He had a reputation to uphold, after all, as the professor who would deduct house points for _breathing_.  Just because he’d softened his stance against Potter didn’t mean he’d gone soft in the head. 

Mentally bracing himself, Snape entered Dumbledore’s office, keeping his usual scowl on his face like the most impenetrable of masks. 

“Ah, Severus,” Dumbledore welcomed him, as if the wards about his room had not alerted him beforehand to the dark-haired man’s arrival, “Come in!  Do take a seat.  Jelly bean?”

Knowing that the jelly beans were only mildly more palatable than Albus’s infernal lemon drops, Snape declined with a faint twist of his lips and a forestalling motion of one long-fingered hand. 

“Well, down to business then,” Dumbledore sobered, suddenly looking tired and older than Severus was used to.  “I called you here to talk about the matter of the Troll yesterday, as you might have suspected I would.”

Snape had counted that high on his list of possible topics.  In all honestly, it was the easiest and safest topic that Dumbledore could have picked to talk about with the ex-spy.  Sometimes it was ridiculous how many secrets Severus kept locked in his head, doomed to protect them to the point where talking about a Troll attack was actually rather relaxing by comparison.  The Potions Master settled more deeply into his seat without really losing his edge of watchfulness.  “I presume you have made headway on finding the person responsible?” Snape asked. 

Unexpectedly, the aging wizard shook his head in return.  “No, I’m afraid not, Severus, and that is the problem.  All I know, I’m afraid, was that it would have to be a terribly powerful wizard to cast a hex right into the stones of Hogwarts itself.”

“And how can you sense this without knowing who this person is?” Snape derided.

Dumbledore cast him a look, one that was on the verge of being chastising – probably as close as the dotty old man came.  “There’s a difference, Severus, between smelling smoke and knowing where the fire is.  Unfortunately, I’m afraid that part of the purpose of the hex was to blond me to that.”  He paused and considered, head tipped as if listening to some distant music available only to his old ears.  “Not unlike a brilliant fireworks show to dazzle the eyes, although far less benign.”

“Far less,” Snape snorted darkly, pointing out, “That metaphorical fire with its accompanying metaphorical fireworks took command of the doors and proceeded to lock and unlock them for a hungry Troll.  You have fixed all of that, haven’t you?”

“Watch your tone, Severus,” Dumbledore reminded, some of the ‘dotty old man’ leaving to be replaced by the wizard who was still quite lethal despite his long beard and penchant for handing out sweets.  Snape froze, well aware of the latter disposition like a lion in front of him. 

After holding the younger wizard’s gaze for a moment longer, Dumbledore continued the conversation in a flat, businesslike tone, “I need you, Severus, to do a bit of looking to see if you could find anything about the perpetrator of this hex.  While I am indebted to yourself and Lucius Malfoy for dealing with the immediate problem of the locked doors and rampant troll, our ultimate problem is the perpetrator.  As I said, I was too busy with the hex itself to get an accurate impression of its castor, but there are few wizards powerful enough to cast it.”

“And how do you know that said castor is not myself?” Severus sneered, knowing that it was a foolish move but preferring to have everything in the open.  “I have proven that I have many skills outside of simply brewing potions and betraying Dark Lords.” 

Not a lot of people had the inner steel to joke so blatantly about anything related to Voldemort, and a muscle jumped even in Dumbledore’s cheek as he listened to his uncouth, stubborn Potions Professor.  Snape refused to retract his words, belligerence being an inseparable part of his nature – probably the only part of his nature that had kept him sane while being one of the Dark Lords followers, besides the accompanying presence of Lucius. 

The answer Dumbledore gave was not what he was expecting, however, as the man said gravely, “I’m afraid that the hexer would have to be even more powerful than you, Severus.  And I’m not entirely sure what to make of that.”

~^~

Still a bit rattled by his talk with the Headmaster, Severus left the man’s offices to begin his search.  The holiday for the children, it turned out, was not entirely for the purpose of countering the trauma of sharing school grounds temporarily with a homicidal Troll – it also served as a chance for Severus to get a head-start on his search without the distraction of classes.  Dumbledore had been unable to pinpoint where the hex had originated, but he was fairly sure that even a hex of that power would have had to be cast very close to the school itself, if not inside the school.  With most of the students outside enjoying the weather, that left far less traffic to get in Snape’s way.

Except for one bit of traffic. 

He felt the tingle of familiarity like a breath along his skin even before he left the Headmaster’s main wing and turned the corner.  Regardless of the magical warning, Severus’s eyes still widened a bit comically as he came upon Lucius, leaned elegantly against the wall and obviously waiting for him. 

‘ _Why didn’t Dumbledore warn me_?’ Snape wondered, knowing that Dumbledore, as the Master of Hogwarts, had a keen sense of what was going on in his school.  The Headmaster didn’t know what was going on with everyone all the time, but that didn’t mean he was incapable of it – in fact, many of the Marauders’ worse pranks had been headed off at the pass because the Headmaster had given Filch timely tips about their whereabouts.  The area directly outside his offices should have constantly been on the old man’s watch.  “Loitering, are we, Lucius?” he asked in a low droll, hiding his surprise under a bored mask as he just walked past, determined to ignore the blonde-haired man.  Just as determinedly, he ignored the vibrant memories of their last encounter as they sprang up unbidden to the forefront of his mind, the memory of breath on his ear and a soothing hand on his collarbone.  Ignoring such memories was much harder with the man who had helped create them was falling in step beside him and to his right. 

“You offend me, Severus.  We Malfoy’s never loiter.  We are simply…”  Lucius stopped to consider, a little smile playing at the corner of his mouth as he tipped his head back, tapping his cane lightly on the floor as he walked smoothly.  Finally, he decided on saying, “…Always where we wish to be.”

“Charming,” Severus made clear he was thinking the opposite, “Then I’m sure you have something to say about your son being ‘exactly where he wishes to be’ when I put him in detention.”

“Is that a threat, Severus, or a remark on a past event?”

“Pick one, Lucius.  I give detention to an awful lot of children, and with Draco now unavoidably hanging out with Potter and his Gryffindor associates, it’s only a matter of time.”

That got Lucius laughing, a noise that was accompanied by a pleasant rolling of his magic against Severus’s senses, making Severus half-wish that they’d never started acting as one another Resonants again.  It had been hard enough as a hormonal teenager to ignore the intimate sense of the other man through magic, and now it was happening all over again with the addition of Lucius’s new ‘friendliness’, which Severus was thus far unable to understand or predict. 

“Are you here to fulfill your threat about pulling secrets from me then?” Severus blatantly asked, sounding bored instead of defensive because he’d had a lot of practice.  His incredibly abrasive personality had been cultured early on to work in his favor, because it set people off-balance when he was not only rude but as candid and blunt as a sledgehammer (and had a similar lack of respect for decorum).

Only Lucius was not off-set by that, and didn’t seem offended or surprised by the question at all.  “Of course not, Severus,” he lied back with aplomb.

Or at least, Snape assumed Lucius lied.  That was one thing he could not sense via Resonance, as much as that frustrated him – it was as if the elder Malfoy were so used to lying that even his magic didn’t given him away.  In their first few months of being Resonants, Severus had noticed an uncomfortable little shiver go through Lucius’s magic when he’d known he’d been lying, but the aristocrat had since sublimated that response.  Still, in matters like this, it was usually safe to assume that Lucius was merely having fun yanking his chain.  “Don’t try to fool me, Lucius.  Only fools would ever believe that you are entirely benign, and I’ve known you too long for that.  Besides that, I’ve a good memory, and you were quite clear when we last met.  You want to know about Potter.”

“The fact that you are defending him so staunchly is a sign that there is something to know.”

“Which makes no difference.  I still have no intention of disclosing what I’ve been told.” 

Finally, Lucius looked over at him as they walked, face turning considerate in that way that turned his grey eyes to cool, reflective scalpels – incisive, keen, and sharp.  For all that, this look was less threatening than his previous amused, taunting look.  He was studying Severus keenly for an uncomfortable length of time before he spoke, “I’m not a monster, you know, Severus.  Well, at least not quite the kind of monster you’re making me out to be.”

“Pray tell,” the Potion Master sneered in a low voice that barely hid his apprehension at the odd turn this conversation was taking, “What kind of monster do I make you that is so unjust?”

“The kind who betrays friends,” the elder Malfoy replied in a diplomatic, calm tone. 

Severus tried not to choke on surprise, instead walking a little faster as if he could somehow just outrun this talk altogether.  With each passing minute, Lucius was prodding at touchier and touchier subjects.  Severus roughly reminded, “In the war, we all betrayed friends.  Multiple times, if I recall.  I would have betrayed you if it were necessary.”

Still Lucius maintained his ludicrous calm, the kind of even-keeled temperament that had weathered far worse storms than this.  “Would you have?” Lucius asked idly, still tapping his decorative cane, which was now making no noise whatsoever – it was ensorcelled to be silent when its master wished, and Lucius had a habit of testing the spell at odd intervals to make sure it was always in working order.  It had an eerie effect to people who only noticed it subliminally, and an unsettling effect to people who knew about it, and about the fact that it made its user either distractingly obvious or lethally silent at will. 

Unexpectedly, Severus found words failing him: as much as he wanted to spout out a self-assured, coldhearted ‘ _yes_ ,’ he just couldn’t get his vocal cords behind the idea, and instead a sigh breath just fell off his lips.  He knew he’d lost this encounter even before Lucius smiled, releasing the enchantment on his cane so that it hit the stone floor with a startling clip.  Severus flinch, then swore softly as he glared the other direction. 

“I’ll leave you to your secrets, Severus,” Lucius closed the conversation with Pure Blood aplomb and maybe a hint of sarcasm, because it was becoming disturbingly clear that Lucius could see right through him. 

Just what exactly did he see?  As Severus watched the pale-haired aristocrat saunter off down another hall, he tried to come to terms with the maelstrom of emotions that was whirling away inside of him.  It wasn’t anything new: he’d always had that tangled briar-bush of emotions for Lucius.  The problem was, years and maturity had somehow done nothing to clarify or unpuzzle them.  How could Lucius guess what he was thinking when he hadn’t a bloody clue himself?

Severus watched the other man leave for a moment longer before giving himself a physical shake, focusing his mind on the task he’d been given. 

~^~

In a way, Lucius Malfoy had a twisted sense of honor, because he left the source of all this intrigue alone: Harry.  The Gryffindor Golden Boy and his Resonant were none-the-wiser to the elder Malfoy’s curiosity as they went in search of their classmates on this fine ‘Troll Holiday’. 

Harry was still a bit weary, but Draco didn’t have to worry about him keeling over without warning anymore at least.  Nonetheless, he kept close to the other small boy, telling himself that that was just what a Resonant did.  In his mind, however, he was mulling over the confirmation that Severus had given them that they really could sense each other’s emotions now. 

At the moment, Harry seemed…calm.  If Draco really concentrated, he could analyze what he was detecting, and it felt like nothing so much as a warm presence leaning against his magic even though Potter was walking under his own power now.  Dressed in his robes again with his hands in his pockets, the Gryffindor boy was obviously lost in thought, but not overburdening himself with thinking.  Normally, Draco would have made a snarky comment about Gryffindors _never_ overburdening themselves with thinking, but he couldn’t find it in himself to do it.  After the last twenty-four hours that Potter had had, even Draco at his most prattish couldn’t condone teasing him. 

Instead, the pale-haired boy asked to fill the silence, “I wonder where the Weasel thinks we’ve gotten ourselves to?  He and the fluffy-haired one must be out of their minds, not finding you romping around outside with all the other first-years. 

That got Harry’s attention from wherever he’d been in his thoughts, and he sighed and flicked his eyes over to Draco.  Feeling guilty for a flash (it seemed he’d managed to upset the boy after all), Draco looked away, but Harry merely murmured tolerably, “There names are Ron and Hermione.  But you’re probably right.  I never thought to tell them where I’ve been, so they’ll be asking.”

“Reckon the paintings would tell them?”

“No,” Harry shook his head consideringly, “They really only seem to talk to you and me, and mostly you.  Oh – and Blaise.”

Draco grumbled petulantly with moodily narrowed eyes, “Still no bloody clue why they talk to him.”

Before Harry could admonish Draco for his unwillingness to share the paintings’ abundant affections, the other Slytherin boy in question appeared.  What was shocking, however, was that he was with Ron and Hermione. 

Harry was perking up enough that he noticed first, coming to a startled halt with enough of a jerk that Draco clipped his shoulder in passing before he stopped, too, staring with unfettered bewilderment at the incongruous trio before them.  It was like watching two worlds collide, and he wasn’t sure he liked it. 

“Hey, Harry,” Hermione said, not freaking out over the boy’s absence at all. 

“Er…hi,” stumbled Potter back.  It was debatable whether or not he would have been able to process all of this even if he hadn’t been ‘hungover’ from turning his magic off and then taking on of Snape’s foul-tasting potions.  So far as he or Draco knew, Hermione and Ron had never even met Blaise before now, and yet the three were clearly quite chummy – even Ron, with his inherent distrust for Slytherins. 

Blaise supplied quickly and with one of his trademark smooth smiles that lit up his handsome young face, “I told them that you both had detention for being out in the halls when the Troll attacked.” 

It was a blatant lie, but apparently Ron had swallowed it.  “Yeah, Harry!  Horrid luck.”

“I can’t believe that Professor Snape would be that unfair,” Hermione commiserated as well, stepping forward and putting a hand on Harry’s arm comfortingly while Potter just blinked like a stupefied owl and Draco looked on.  “I mean, it couldn’t be _your_ fault that you got stuck out!”

“Uh…I mean, yeah, no, not our fault at all,” Harry lifted a hand to rub through his hair in a mixture between confusion and hesitation.  He was clearly not in a condition to deal with finely-crafted lies like this, but Blaise had set things up so no one else really had to worry.  Blaise was, in fact, still smiling almost cherubically, as if butter wouldn’t melt on his tongue.  Somehow, in the space of a few hours, Blaise had managed to not only infiltrate Harry’s friends but get them to trust his word as law.  Draco watched the small, dark-skinned boy shrewdly, realizing that he’d had to watch Zabini a bit more closely in the future to find out whether this was all a matter of charisma or if some dark magic was involved. 

“That Dungeon Bat is barmy, mate,” Ron was continuing, briefly pausing to look at the two Slytherins next to him with a grimace, “No offense, but he is.  Anyway, Harr’, I don’t think it’s legal to give two students detention when they really just need to sleep.”

Ah, so that was how Blaise was explaining away the dark, bruise-like circles under Harry’s green eyes.  For the first time since noticing him, Harry’s eyes also slid over to look at Blaise, careful, guarded consideration in the glance.  Blaise just tipped his head, still pleasant as can be and not giving himself away in the slightest. 

“What Ron really means, Harry,” stepped in the young Gryffindor witch with a dramatic roll of her eyes, “is that he wanted someone to play chess with, and no one else would.”

“Until Zabini came in,” Ron amended, hooking at thumb at the slender boy still standing to his right and Hermione’s left – right between them like a close chum, in fact.  “He’s almost as bad as you, Harry!” crowed Ron, and Draco resisted the urge to scowl at him. 

Harry took the offense in stride, however, in the same water-of-a-duck’s-back sort of way that he’d dealt with the whole Slytherin common-room when he’d first been introduced there.  In fact, Harry even managed to hide his remaining lethargy a little more, although whatever it was doing to Potter’s magic made Draco’s stomach roll a little, and perhaps that made him a little bit snarkier than necessary to the other first-years.  He didn’t feel particularly ashamed, however, and was largely ignored anyway as the Gryffindors talked. 

It was Blaise who tied everyone back together again, slipping seamlessly into the conversation as if he were a House chameleon, capable of making himself appealing to both Gryffindors and Slytherins.  It seemed that he’d done a stellar job of keeping Harry’s friends from going into a panic about him, all without deviating too far from the truth, something that Draco had to admire.  It seemed that only the professors, the paintings, and Blaise were aware of how close Draco and Harry had come to being Troll food, and even fewer had any inkling of how they’d prevented that. 

Ron quickly couldn’t stand still any longer, and began hurrying them outside with the promise that Madame Hooch was giving impromptu broom lessons in place of actual classes – only a few of the younger kids were being allowed on the brooms, to prevent utter airborne chaos, but Ron was hopeful that he’d be one of the lucky ones if he hung around long enough.  Hermione was somewhat less enthused, but followed anyway, falling into a conversation with Blaise about Pure Blood lineages and the complications of past inbreeding – a topic that either Blaise knew a lot about or was very good at _pretending_ he knew a lot about.  Draco made a mental note to ask Zabini where he’d learn to lie so artfully. 

Predictably, Draco and Harry trailed behind.  They were close enough to occasionally comment on Ron’s excited Quidditch talk, but mostly the Weasley boy was self-sufficient when it came to that category – mere nods and murmurs of agreement from Harry were all that was required.  Harry was a bit better, but not yet as rambunctious as his redheaded friend. 

And suddenly, Harry jerked to a stop, silently enough that Blaise, Hermione, and Ron went on without them – Draco only stopped because prickles like pins when up his back like a kitten climbing his spine.  He contorted to scratch at the magical itch, hissing so they wouldn’t be overheard by their other friends, “Harry!  Merlin-fuckin’-dammit – do you have to do that?!” 

Harry gave turned him a distracted, perplexed look, unaware what the flair of his magic and emotions was doing.  “Do what?” Potter blinked.

“Never mind,” Draco grumbled, giving up on scratching his shoulders when it irritated his scars – which he’d been doing his best to forget about since the cry of last night.  “Why’d you stop?”

“I…”  Harry looked around; Draco noticed his eyes fixing down a corridor, narrowing, and suddenly Draco felt another version of that itching feeling.  It was the same sensation he got from Harry’s magic every time they were around Dumbledore or Professor Quirrell, and Draco was fairly certain that it was created by wariness and high mistrust.  Therefore, he knew that Harry was lying when he turned forward again, face carefully blank, “It’s nothing.  Sorry.”

“Liar.”

“What?”  Harry shot him a look, temporarily becoming almost intimidating.  The appearance was ruined by the fact that he wore glasses and had hair like a fluffy crow’s-nest, and was barely bigger than Draco himself. 

So Draco merely gave his eyes a dramatic roll before he scowled, pointing back where Harry had been looking as he stepped closer and hissed, “Look, Potter, you’re a bum liar, and obviously you saw something.  Now come on, tell me.”

For a moment, Harry stubbornly held onto his mask of obliviousness before he gave in.  Draco was getting rather good at reading his Resonant, and was therefore smugly proud that he sensed the defeat a split-second before it actually happened – a flicker of magic against his chest.  “I’m a Sensitive, right?” Harry started, words uncertain because he wasn’t used to talking about this.  He looked down the hall to make sure their other friends were out of hearing range before continuing, “Well, I just felt something funny down that way.”

“I’m assuming you don’t me ‘funny’ as in humorous.”

“Stop being a prat, Malfoy.”  Harry’s full weight wasn’t in the insult, and he was already looking back down the hall again, and that crawling itch of Harry’s unease radiated into Draco again. 

On impulse, Draco suddenly asked calmly, “Is it the Headmaster?”

Harry’s head jerked around, green eyes narrowing in surprise and tension.  “No!”

“Then Professor Quirrell?”

“N-!” Harry started to defend again, then stopped, froze, and spun around once more.  He seemed to vibrate with concentration, and what that did to his magic had Draco sucking in a breath: it felt like being incredibly close to an arc of lightning poised above the ground.  “It’s not…” Harry started and stopped, frowning and fingering his wand in his pocket, “It’s…I don’t know how to describe it.  It’s not Quirrell, not really, but it also sort of is.”

“Harry, mate!” Ron called out from where he, Hermone, and Blaise were paused to exit the building, “You coming or what?  Just drag Malfoy along!”

Before Draco could spit out some choice words about being dragged along or not, Harry interrupted, “Sorry!  Coming!”  He tugged at Draco’s sleeve while coaxing under his breath, “Come on, Draco.” 

Because Potter honestly seemed worried about what his friends would think if he kept loitering and staring down empty hallways, Draco sighed and gave in with ill grace, shaking off the other boy’s hand but nonetheless walking naturally at his side like they were images poised on either side of a mirror. 

Neither noticed the turbaned professor step out of a room down the abandoned hall, his usually timid expression set into a pinched, stormy frown. 

~^~

Back in his office, the Headmaster considered his decision to tell no one that he’d lost his Mastery of the castle.  Usually, the building was his eyes and ears, but now he could see and sense only the room around him, and Fawkes looking at him worriedly, red-gold head canted.  At least he could tell that no one else had taken over the school’s magic and become its Master, so for now, he decided that informing the others was unnecessary.  He’d regain control soon enough, he wagered, and by then, surely Severus would have found the person responsible for this unprecedented mess. 

It took a bit, but the Headmaster managed to convince himself of all this, no matter how fallacious it felt beneath the self-assurances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys liked the Sev/Lucius time - it wasn't quite a sexy as before, but hopefully the next chapter will be less plot-building and more action. Fingers crossed!


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Impromptu flying lessons...and Bludgers. Both are involved, and in less than fun ways...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, just so you know: I'm changing canon a lot about the first flying lessons. Draco obviously never stole Neville's Remembrall... I've clearly changed canon a ton already, but I felt I should warn you about that one! Most of the time, I just assume that people will go with it :P Enjoy!

~^~

Despite the general dangers of offering a broom to first-years, Madame Hooch was, indeed, providing impromptu, small-scale flying lessons outside in the cool autumn weather.  She probably was the only professor to realize that students, when left to their own devices on a day without classes would cause trouble - or, at least, Gryffindors would.  Right now, the majority of said Gryffindors were mesmerized by nothing more than a silver-haired woman and a handful of brooms.  The most problems the first-years were causing included shoving a bit and drooling over the prospect of riding one right now.

Ron was, predictably, at the front of the crowd, raising his hand to be picked with as much enthusiasm as Hermione usually showed in classes.  Harry was smirking fondly as he and Draco followed a little bit more sedately, Draco leading with the dark-haired Gryffindor boy just back and to his right.  Draco watched Potter with some consternation as they joined the throng waiting to see whom Madame Hooch would pick to show a few broom-flying tricks.  “You’re awfully calm, Potter,” Malfoy finally just blurted, watching him askance.

Harry’s head jerked to him, eyes completely oblivious as they blinked behind his glasses.  “About what?”

One small, dexterous hand gestured at the cluster of people all around them.  “I thought you hated crowds,” Draco explained, then pitched his voice so that it wouldn’t carry further than the two of them, “I haven’t forgotten that you’re a Sensitive, on top of all the other secrets you’ve been keeping all over the place.”

Harry had the grace to flush in embarrassment, running a hand back through his hair as he no doubt considered how quickly he’d ended up spilling since becoming a Resonant to Draco Malfoy.  “Oh...well, this...this isn’t so bad.”  Harry’s nose scrunched up as he thought over what he’d just said, and how unexpected it was.  “I’m not sure _why_ it’s not bothering me,” he muttered in consternation, “but it’s not.”  Unconsciously, he shifted closer to Draco - not as if he were nervous or feeling crowded, but with the ease of someone shifting his weight towards warmth.  While Draco coolly considered his companion’s change in posture and nearness, Potter swung his head around, further commenting, “It’s not like I’m not still sensing everyone’s magic all around, it’s just...kind of bearable.”  He looked  back at Draco with an incredibly relaxed smile, saying with some relief, “It’s a nice change!”

“You know what else is nice?” Draco deadpanned, hiding a small snicker.

The smile dropped to be replaced by bemusement on Harry’s face, brows lowering suspiciously over his green eyes.  “What?”

“That Hooch is totally calling your name, and you haven’t noticed.”

Once again Harry’s unconscious reluctance to respond to his own name was rearing its head, and Draco burst out into helpless laughter at the other’s boy’s expense as Harry jumped like a stung frog and turned to the professor, who was indeed trying to get his attention.  “Mr. Potter?  Are you listening?  I asked if you wanted to take a turn.  Your first flying lessons were not half-bad, after all.”

Unable to decide whether to be embarrassed or suddenly excited, Harry just nodded his head dumbly.  Draco only stopped chuckling when Harry suddenly turned to look at him, then back at Hooch, maintaining with surprising staunchness, “I have to stay nearby Draco, though.”

Harry stayed by Draco so naturally that sometimes it was easy for Draco to forget that they _had_ to do that - if Harry suddenly decided to leave him behind somewhere, Draco would undoubtedly start hemorrhaging magic in short order.  This wouldn’t really hurt Harry any, so Draco felt a moment of shame as he realized how much he was taking Potter’s loyalty for granted: Potter didn’t have to stick to him like a burr, but he did anyway.  

“I know that, Harry,” Madame Hooch said in her usual, clipped tones, but the slant of her eyes was soft, “But it won’t be a problem - you’ve not qualified to do anything more than hover, after all, and I imagine you’ll fear the height before you get too far away for Draco’s health.”

A few of the students didn’t really understand the magical relationship between the two boys, but everyone was by now aware that they were inseparable to the point where each was traipsing back and forth between Houses.  Draco bristled a bit when some students sneered at him, seeing weakness in the slender, blonde-headed Slytherin, but as soon as Draco’s hands began balling into fists, Harry was bumping his shoulder.  In fact, Harry was not-so-subtly walking forward with him - towards Ron, Hermione, and Blaise, actually.  “Sure, Professor, I’d love a go,” Harry gave in, even as he more or less deposited Draco in ‘safe’ territory next to their friends.  It was actually quite smoothly done, Draco had to admit, as he crossed his arms and watched Harry almost reverently approach the broom that Hooch had lying on the ground.

Calling the broom up into his hand was done easily, and Harry’s face practically split, he grinned so widely.  Draco felt a flash of warmth right down the middle of his spine, and while it startled him, bit was much better than the irritating, itching sensation he got every time Harry got paranoid around the Headmaster or Professor Quirrell.  Actually, with that searing, wonderful warmth radiating from tailbone to neck, it was hard not to relax...and maybe even smile a little.  

“What are you grinning about, Malfoy?” Ron griped, making the smile fall and Draco bristle a bit again.  

“Ron, don’t be rude…” Hermione hissed, but by then, Draco had a firm scowl in place, an aristocratic mask that he was familiar with.  He kept his eyes fixed on Harry stradling the broom now, but listened to how quickly Blaise stepped in, redirecting Weasley’s attention with the skill of a street-magician distracting an audience.

“Not a very bright audience,” Draco quipped just to make himself feel better.  By then, Harry was rising into the air, wobbly barely at all as Madame Hooch called up instructions.  Draco hadn’t seen Harry fly before; he’d been in the same class when everyone was scheduled to mount their first broom, but had gotten lost in the halls after Crabbe and Goyle had managed to detain him in the common-room.  The paintings had helped him out, but this had been early on during his time under the Magicseal, and navigating the halls and changing staircases had  been borderline impossible.  He’d been so late to class that he’d actually never gotten on a broom at all, and had gotten detention besides.  First years really weren’t given much flying time, so he’d resigned himself to being behind in that class.  

Now, though, with the thrill of Harry’s delight curling up and down his spine with increasing excitement, Draco wished he could be up there, too.   _Now_.  Harry was already sitting comfortably, so much so that Draco doubted he had any fear of heights to speak of; he watched as the scrawny, bespectacled boy straightened, looking about him with that goofy smile plastered across his face and the wind buffeting his hair back from his scar.  The lethargic, ill Harry of this morning was nowhere to be seen, replaced by this Phoenix of a boy sitting proudly up in the air without a care in the world.  Draco felt yearning and jealousy heat his stomach, but so long as he was linked to Harry’s feelings like this through magic - feeling his unadulterated freedom and joy - he couldn’t find it in himself to be mad.  

The older students were, of course, fully allowed to own and fly brooms of their own, and were doing so across the pitch - some were flying for fun, but more had organized themselves to practice Quidditch.  Quaffles and Bludgers were zipping through the air, carefully controlled by knowledgeable students and too far away to be a problem.

That was the theory, anyway.  

Draco sensed trouble before he saw anything, and he knew that the sense was actually coming from Potter - and by the way Potter stiffened and swung his head about, he was more than likely sensing magic in some way.  Harry’s attention focused over his shoulder before he could think to turn the broom around, and Draco immediately followed his eyes, seeing something like a black dot zipping their way with rapidly increasing speed.  Potter didn’t seem to realize what it was, but the moment Draco did, his blood went cold; Harry, sensing that, perhaps, twitched and looked back down at Draco with beetled brows a second before Draco pointed and shouted, “A Bludger!”

He was almost too late, because the Bludger was moving with incredible speed - far fast, honestly, than its hould have been able to go.  The students who had been playing with it could be seen chasing after it, but their brooms dragged in the air by comparison, and the lethal orb was heading right towards the lone Gryffindor boy floating in the air above Madame Hooch.  

Hooch herself took everything in at a shocked glance, and then she yelled, “Down, Potter!”  She was already raising her wand and preparing to mount her own broom.

It was no use, though, because the second Harry descending - and quite skillfully, too, for his second time on a broom - the Bludger changed trajectory.  Hooch was forced to hold off on her fasting as the Bludger came by so close to Harry that to shoot at it would be to risk hitting him, too.  Harry himself would have been bashed right out of the air if, at the last second, he hadn’t flattened his frame to the broomstick.  Before he could get to the ground, the Bludger reversed with an unnatural jerk, making it clear that it wouldn’t be so easily avoided.  

Draco could see it in Harry’s face, although how he decrypted the look, he had no idea - could Resonants read minds?  He knew that Harry was looking at the Bludger and at the gaggle of startled fellow first-years below him, realizing that he’d be leading the rogue Bludger right into the thick of them if he did as ordered and descended to the ground.  “Don’t be an idiot, Potter!” Draco found himself screeching a second before Harry suddenly yanked up on his broom, twisting in a tight circle instead of heading for the safety of the ground.  Once again, the Bludger changed trajectory, but this time swung wide as its prey proved to be much more adept than expected at flying.  

Madame Hooch was screaming, clearly outraged and also trying to hide how unsettled she was by the course of events.  She was shooing the students back to the building, but a lot of them weren’t listening, and it was hard to berate them when her first instinct was to protect the Gryffindor boy being targeted on his broom.  Every time Harry tried to get some distance between himself and his pursuer, it turned to follow, and it gained on him if he flew in a straight line for too long - there was no way this was natural.  Draco refused to turn back to the building, even as someone tugged at his sleeve and Blaise called to him.  

Madame Hooch finally risked firing a spell, trying to incapacitate the rogue Bludger, but it went off so close to Harry that he was nearly knocked off his broom, hunching his shoulders as the blast of magic rumpled his robes and created a concussive blast in the air.  Draco found his heart in his throat, and took an involuntary step forward as the spell managed to miss the Bludger.  Hooch swore in a fashion quite unbecoming a teacher, and mounted her broom.  The older students who had originally been playing Quidditch had caught up by now, but were hanging back, terrified to get involved as Harry zigzagged in the air with the Bludger never more than a few meters away.  It was like watching a cat-fight and trying to figure out how to separate the combatants without being cut to ribbons.  It was a miracle that Harry was holding his own, twisting and turning in the air and twice flying vertical before going into a dead drop, once flipping upside-down under his broom to avoid getting his head  bashed in.  

“Wait!” Draco shouted just as Hooch was about to take off - a useless endeavor, because she wouldn’t be able to get any closer than her spells could.  The Bludger was simply sticking too close to Harry.  Draco straightened his spine and tried to imitate how he’d seen his father stand and talk, that indefinable aura of command always about him.  It must have worked, because Hooch looked at him in surprise, hesitating just a millisecond.  

That was all Draco needed.  He pulled out his wand and was shouting a spell before anyone could stop him...or before he could think better of it.  He sincerely hope that this wouldn’t turn out like the duel between his father and Severus had...right now, he was counting firmly upon Resonance working in his and Harry’s favor.  

Well aware of Madame Hooch’s yelp of shock at his behavior, Draco felt his magic swell and rocket down his arm, his wand focusing it while his words shaped it into one of the dueling spells they’d recently been taught.  Harry was flying right over him now, and glanced down with wide eyes, but didn’t swerve or slow as Draco released a wall of silver-green light right at him.  

Harry flew right into that wall, ducking low over his broom and burying his head against his arms preemptively, the Bludger fast closing in behind him.  As Harry approached the spell, however, it frayed and retreated rapidly from him like peeling paint, and he zipped through a neat hole even as the Bludger was  brought to a halt as surely as if it had hit a brick wall.

Hooch wasted no time: as Draco’s started to crack, she fired off the spell she’d been holding back until now, this time firing at the dangerous Quidditch ball without any risk of hitting Potter.  With a sound like an electric charge fizzling through the air, her spell thundered forward and more or less disintegrated the Bludger on impact.  

Draco slipped to his knees, half from relief, and half from the realization that Harry was starting to fly out of range of him.  ‘ _Bloody hell_...’ he thought to himself as he gritted his teeth and felt a heat slowly building in the center of his chest.  Suddenly, the threat of the Bludger was only the tip of the iceberg of trouble…

Before Draco’s scars could even heat up, however, it was all dissipating and he could breath again.  There was a rush of air by his ear and Madame Hooch barking something sharply, but then someone was stumbling into him and he was hearing and feeling a panting, frazzled Gryffindor grabbing him around his shoulders.  Harry smelled of autumn wind and cold sweat and something like ozone that must have been the spell of Draco’s he’d passed unharmed through - the peculiar trick of their Resonance had ensured he couldn’t be hit by Draco’s spell, but the sensation and smell of it still clung to him.  “Sorry!  Sorry, Draco!” he assured the kneeling Slytherin between breaths, seeming incredibly worried about Draco when it was Harry who’d almost been killed by a Bludger.  Actually, Harry was doing what could only be termed hugging right now, and yet Draco could only feel reassured right now by the wiry arms tightening around him: he was just relieved to have his magic quieting inside of himself again, the threat of release averted.  He’d be annoyed and embarrassed by the show of affection later, he promised himself, even as he gripped one of Harry’s arms with fervent tightness and let his head descent against one of his shoulders.  “I...I didn’t mean to go that far out.  Sorry,” Harry finished his breathless apologies, but Draco just shook his head, wordlessly accepting it all.  

Blearily, as if in a cottony cocoon inside his own head, Draco heard Harry clear up any misconceptions about Draco’s spell directed towards him.  It turned out that Snape hadn’t exactly gone around to everyone patiently explaining every quirk and detail about Resonants, because Madame Hooch had been sure that Draco had nearly killed the flying Gryffindor boy. Quite patiently and calmly, Harry turned away those suspicions, all without actually letting Draco go; it should have been incredibly uncomfortable, but Draco couldn’t bring himself to care. All he could think was that Harry’s shoulder was warm beneath his forehead and that the snug grip of his arms around his back seemed to sooth the lingering ache from his new scars. His ear was tickled by the buzz of Harry’s words as he spoke, and his only complaint was that Harry spasmodically tightened his grip sometimes, as if fearing Draco would flutter away. This wasn’t uncomfortable, but Draco could have just told him that he didn’t plan on moving anywhere.

Typically, this rare aberration of relaxation and odd peacefulness was broken when Ron said something, something that made that itch of Harry’s emotions prickle up Draco’s spine. “Bloody git…!” Draco growled, pressing his face briefly into the wind-cooled material of Harry’s robes. He wasn’t sure whom he was growling at: Ron for unsettling Harry, or Harry for having these inconvenient emotions that Draco could feel right through his magic. 

Ron helpfully repeated himself, and Draco moved just enough to turn his head and eye him as the redhead pointed, “It was Snape!  Snape was hexing the Bludger!  He could have killed you, Harry!”  Sure enough, the Potions Master was striding towards them, having just exited the building, it seemed, robes now billowing behind him like a storm-cloud.  His expression was fittingly stormy, especially when he caught Weasley’s words and snapped a singeing look at him. 

A look which Ron missed, because he’d turned back to Harry and was imploring again, “I saw him at the window-!”

“Where I took note of the fiasco occurring, hence the fact that I am now _outside_ investigating,” Snape rolled over him, finally getting close enough that no one could ignore his presence.  “Blathering Gryffindors,” he seethed in an undertone, as if labeling one of the greatest diseases to afflict the planet. 

“But I-!” Ron continued to try and warn Harry of danger, but Hermione grabbed his arm and then clamped a wise hand over his mouth.

Harry also spoke up, in surprisingly sharp tones as he glared warningly at Ron, “It wasn’t _him_ , Ron.”

“Thank you for your ringing support, Potter,” Snape drawled before coming to a halt about two meters from the Slytherin and Gryffindor pair. His attention was on Madame Hooch, an almost equal distance on the other side, “Madame Hooch, is everything under control?” 

“As of now,” she nodded, still a bit breathless.  She shot a look into the sky over her shoulder, where the previous owners of the Bludger was still hovering, looking uneasy and guilty. “It would appear that a Bludger got out of control, although that seems too soft a word.”

“Magically tampered with, then?” asked Snape, expression dark but otherwise unreadable.  Said expression turned downwards as Harry suddenly piped up with the defensive tones of a small but determinedly loyal dog.

“It wasn’t them, either.”

Snape’s brows lowered, and he seemed to stare at Harry more closely for a brief, intense moment before he suddenly snapped his precious expression into place.  “I think that Mr. Potter has got what few brain-cells he possesses rattled.  I’ll escort him and Mr. Malfoy to the Infirmary – if nothing else, Poppy will want to check that Draco’s magic hasn’t hurt him again.”

Hooch opened her mouth, as if to ask some questions, but apparently she recognized a visit with the Medi-witch would be more important than an interrogation – especially because she doubted that Harry or Draco would know more than she did at this moment.  “Thank you, Severus.  I’m going to see if I can learn anything here about what transpired, after getting everyone indoors.”

Never a man for pleasantries, Snape just dipped his chin in what could conceivably have been a nod, and then turned on his heel.  “Come along Draco.  Potter.”

Only then did Draco shake Harry off, but it was a lackluster effort to regain his personal space, without any real offense to it.  Draco even let Harry help him up a bit, the dark-haired boy hovering close as Draco brushed bits of grass of his knees. Harry’s hair was wind-whipped into a chocolaty storm on his head, but he didn’t appear to notice.

“Harry, mate-!” Ron pulled free of Hermione long enough to hiss at him worriedly.

Predictably, Snape still heard him.  “If no one can convince Mr. Weasley to kindly follow the rest of class back into the building, I will be forced to take points all around,” he threatened over-loudly, and just kept walking as the sounds of scurrying filled the air behind him. Ron was effectively muffled and pulled away, following everyone else after Madame Hooch while Snape, Harry, and Draco re-entered Hogwarts by a different route. 

“You seem rather adamant in your defense of me, Potter,” Snape observed unreadably once they were indoors, silence surrounding them without another student in sight.  “To say nothing for the imbeciles who neglected to keep an eye on their Bludger-”

“It wasn’t them,” Harry doggedly repeated, actually glaring at Snape’s back, hackles rising despite the fact that he was a fair sight smaller than the looming professor. 

The space between Draco’s shoulder-blades was prickling and itching again, and he uselessly contorted to try and scratch it, even though nothing did any good while Harry was in a mood like this.  “Will you bloody stop it!” he snarked, “It’s like when you get around the Headmaster or Quirrell, you pour ants under my skin!”

“Quirrell was _there_ ,” Harry returned, unrepentant at the moment.  Snape stopped walking to turn around, brows lowered.  The dark-haired professor’s expression grew more warning as Harry immovably accused, “He was the one hexing the Bludger!”

“Blaming a professor, Potter,” Severus warned in a low tone, barely a rumble of sound – the kind of tone that would make most students cower, but Harry merely turned to face him and braced himself stubbornly.  Severus looked down his nose at him, finishing, “You’re starting to sound like the Weasley, which is not a compliment. Do you at least have some basis for your accusation?”

Harry opened is mouth, and Draco _knew_ what he was going to say: Harry had been sensing magic all the time, and had sensed something before anyone had seen the Bludger at all. If Harry was really as Sensitive as he claimed, he’d be able to recognize the magic hexing the Bludger. That was how he knew that it was Quirrell.

But Harry hadn’t really told many people that he was a magic Sensitive…

“Just tell him, Potter,” Draco sighed, rolling his eyes when Harry shot him a startled look.  “He’ll believe you about Quirrell if you tell him how you know.”

It looked like Harry would argue, but Snape’s wary voice removed the possibility, “Tell me what, Potter?”

“I’m…” Harry tugged at his forelock uneasily, then pushed his glasses up on his nose and finally shoved his fingers back through his hair before sighing in a rush,”I’mamagicSensitive.”

Somehow, Snape managed to make sense of that.  He just stood there for a moment, though, blinking. Then he purposefully backed up until he could lean against the wall, dragging a hand over his face tiredly as he ground out, “Pray tell, Potter, just how many more secrets do you have? If I at least have an accurate count, I can perhaps be prepared.”

“That’s…pretty much it, I think,” mumbled Harry softly, scuffing his foot.

Snape looked past his hand to eye Draco.  “You seem quite calm about this, Draco.”

“Oh, I knew about this secret,” Draco shrugged flippantly, liking to be the one in the metaphorical lead for once.  “After Potter nearly went barmy in the Great Hall because of all the wizards around him, he felt the need to tell me.  Not a very Slytherin move.” 

Snape was growing more curious by the second, although he hid it well – he knew from experience that showing too much interest in something or someone was a quick way to make people grow defensive.  Potter seemed rather tightlipped to begin with, so Snape was careful not to seem too attentive.  “The magic of a packed room disturbs you?” he asked dubiously.

He got a moody nod, the boy’s attention still focused on his shoes. “It’s not as bad with Draco around,” he surprised both of his listeners by adding.

“Understandable,” Snape merely nodded, while Draco blinked.  “Neither Lucius nor myself are Sensitives, but I imagine that Draco’s magic is like white noise to you.  It would buffer you against the effects of magic all around you.”

“But I could still tell that Quirrell’s magic was controlling that Bludger,” Harry lifted his head, pointing out with that stubborn face again. Snape didn’t even try to argue with it.

“Yes, which either means you’re as witlessly stubborn as your Weasley friend-” He ignored the beginnings of Potter’s indignant stutters.  “-Or more powerful than I was expecting.  Come, both of you.  Draco, your father has doubtlessly heard of this by now, and if we are not at the Infirmary by the time he gets there, we’ll _all_ be facing his temper.”  Making no more comment on this newest secret that Harry had revealed to him, or what it meant about Professor Quirrell’s involvement (because unless Harry was lying, it was very unlikely that he was mistaken about what he was sensing, if he was as Sensitive as he seemed), Snape turned and began striding swiftly down the hall again. The two boys exchanged looks before hurrying after him. 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, I wrote some action! This was one of my favorite chapters to write of late - it had action, wild flying, daring Draco, and even some cuddles :3


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry tells Snape a bit more about what he's been sensing around the castle...namely that he's sensing Quirrell's magic in the Forbidden Corridor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually wandering back towards canon just a bit, but don't be surprised when I deviate again! I only use canon when it suits me ;)

~^~

“Professor.”

They hadn’t made it to the Infirmary yet, but Potter had stopped walking, looking very Gryffindor in his stubbornness again.  Snape made no attempt to hide the arch look on his face or the sigh that left his nose as he patiently turned, dark eyes lasering in on the boy. “Stop _dawdling_ , Potter,” he warned impatiently. 

But Draco was glancing back and forth between his professor and his peer, likewise pausing in the middle of the hall and looking prepared to stick by the latter wizard instead of the former.  The green eyes behind those ridiculous glasses lifted and met Snape’s, clearly a bit intimidated but not enough to overcome whatever mulish idea that had come over him.  Deciding not to delay the inevitable, Snape planted his feet and drawled, “Fine, Potter, what is it this time?”

“You believe that I can sense magic, right?” Harry asked, nervous but determined. 

“Yes,” Snape grunted, now crossing his arms.  This could prove interesting. 

“And you believe that I can tell people apart by magic?”

“I have no reason to disbelieve you, as yet,” was the evenhanded reply, and that seemed to actually catch the boy off-guard.  Harry blinked, sincerely surprised by this response. What kind of life had the brat lived that he was so taken off-guard by the simple concept of someone not calling him a liar?  “Just spit it out, Potter, before I detract House points for this hold-up.”

“Potter sensed Quirrell’s magic earlier this morning,” Draco supplied without any apparent remorse for giving things away.  Severus was thankful for the fact that Draco had inherited some of Lucius’s inherent distaste for time-wasting and beating around the bush. “You said it was odd, right, Potter?” Draco artlessly turned the conversation back to the Gryffindor, whose cheeks were already flushed a surprised, uncomfortable pink.

Already, Snape’s brows had lowered over his eyes, a question appearing in their onyx depths.  “Explain,” he demanded.

“It was down the Forbidden Corridor,” Harry finally supplied, “I sensed Quirrell’s magic, but it felt odd.”

“Odd how?”  That fact that it was turning up in that particular corridor was suspicious enough, and had Snape’s hackles rising beneath the mask of his expression.  He knew what was hidden down that way, and if Quirrell’s magic were there… 

“It was his magic…and yet it wasn’t,” Harry tried to explain, gesturing pointlessly as if he were trying to wrap and idea up in his small hands. “It was…”  He paused, focused, and Snape watched with knowledgeable and intrigued eyes as the dark-haired boy shifted closer to Draco unconsciously. The Malfoy boy blinked when is shoulder was bumped, but unexpectedly held his ground instead of moving away. Suddenly Harry was talking again, sounding more concentrated than a boy his age usually did, eyes fixed on the middle distance, “It was like his magic was infected with a cancer, and I was sensing both the healthy tissue and the sick.”  Coming back to his previous, boyish self, Harry lifted his head and asked in bemusement, “Does that make sense?”

For a long, uncomfortable moment, Severus just eyed him, as unblinking and dark as a large, looming raven.  Draco and Harry both began to shift uncomfortably, before Snape turned back the way they’d been going with a ripple of his midnight robes.  “Come along, both of you,” he said somberly, the usual tartness in his tone absent and his voice instead soft like distant thunder, “I informed Madame Hooch that I would take you both to the Infirmary, so although you are both ridiculously resilient, I suppose I must.”

“But about Quirrell-!” Draco boldly complained, sharp, pale features drawing together in a scowl. 

“Is now my problem,” Severus cut his godson off without a qualm. He’d turned is head just enough to catch sight of Potter’s expression out of the corner of his eye: the boy looked startled again.  He looked as though the last thing he’d expected had been for Snape to take over on the matter. “Questions, Potter?” he couldn’t help but ask in a low drawl. 

The unexpectedness of the query had Potter stuttering, “Y-You believe me?”

Snape sighed as if this were all just getting too ridiculous to bear, keeping up the façade as he declared in sneering tones, “Of course I do, Potter. Gryffindors are stubborn, prideful, and foolish in the extreme, but they are pitiably poor at lying. I refuse to believe that after all of the other skills you are exhibiting you have also managed to become the first skilled liar in Gryffindor.”  He ignored the fact that the Weasley twins were both quite prolific liars, because they had such a reputation already as troublemakers that any attempts at protesting innocence rarely worked anyway. 

Now the look of surprise had turned to the kind of confusion that said Potter was trying to decide whether to be grateful or offended, nose wrinkle and the dark arcs of his brows pushing together.  Truly, the boy was quite transparent when he was like this, and it made Severus hide a smirk by turning back forward again – Lily had always been transparent, too, her emotions on her sleeve.  Snape walked on, keeping up a pace that was perfect for keeping the two First Years behind him scrambling without actually losing them in his wake.  He sneered a bit – mostly amused – when he overheard Potter whisper to Draco uncertainly, “Am I really that bad of a liar?”

“If you have to ask that, you probably are.”

“You’re a prat, Draco.”

“At least I’m not a Gryffindor.” 

Some shoving followed this exchange, which Snape allowed for precisely four strides before he barked at them to desist or face detention. He was smugly proud when murmured apologies swiftly ensued, and the two scurried obediently into step behind him.

~^~

“Where is my boy?!” 

“Ah, Lucius,” Severus drawled, pushing away from the entrance to the Infirmary where he’d been waiting for exactly this: Lucius Malfoy storming down the hallway with his aristocratic aloofness and control torn to shreds and his magic storming enough to make Severus’s skin prickle.  For a moment, Severus regretted resurrecting their old Resonant connection, because it was blastedly distracting to feel the sensation break across his chest like a wave of tingling contact.  Still, he kept his face blank and calm, and when Lucius tried to brush past him and into the Infirmary, a long-fingered hand splayed on his chest served to halt him.  “Kindly restrain yourself, Lucius,” he said disparagingly, as if immune to the paternal ire, “before you make a scene.”

“I’ll make more than scene, Severus, if I do not get to see to the safety of my son,” Lucius threatened in a low hiss that had made greater men squirm. Even Severus’s stomach did an uncomfortable flip, but unlike Potter, he was a master at hiding behind lies – in this case, the lie was that he wasn’t afraid of Lucius bypassing Resonance and hexing him right now. 

Because he was no fool, Severus got to the point without further hesitation. “Draco is fine, Lucius. He and Potter were resourceful enough to get out of trouble without injury.  The only reason they are here at all is for the sake of precaution.”

Lucius seemed to deflate physically; for a second, his face was more open and readable than it had been since he was a young child, silvery eyes blinking in surprised and relief.  “They’re unharmed?”

Ignoring the fact that he was being asked to repeat himself, Severus just nodded and lowered his hand from the other man’s chest.  “Potter is a but tired out from his aerial acrobatics, and Draco slightly rattled,” he elaborated truthfully, watching Lucius’s face to be sure that he’d calmed down enough now to hear more details, “He was momentarily out of range of Potter, but at least that Gryffindor boy has enough of a head on his shoulders to go back before anything adverse happened.” It looked like Lucius was going to open his mouth again to ask for reassurances of his only son’s health, so Severus took a half-step forward and gripped his old friend’s shoulders. “Lucius!  Draco. Is. Fine.” 

For a moment, it looked like Lucius would bristle under the coddling, and Severus dug his fingers down a bit as he felt lean muscle tense beneath them, but then the aristocrat relaxed with a breath.  Looking suitably chastised, Lucius put back together his calm mask – and then surprised Severus by reaching up and patting one of the hands on his shoulders.  “It’s all right now, Severus.  I’m not going to go into a healing ward on a rampage.”

Something about the amused warmth that Lucius was now directing at him combined with the carefully applied touch of his hand to make Severus flush slightly. His hands withdrew with a jerk, eager to be back at his side.  “Good,” he said briefly, choosing aloofness rather than paying attention to the dangerous flutter of his emotions, “Let’s go then.”

Lucius’s smile widened smoothly on his face, and disconcerting expression as Severus turned and Lucius moved up at his side.  In fact, Lucius leaned in close enough to make Severus startle at the feel of warm air rustling strands of inky hair against his head. “You know, Severus, I can sense emotions through your magic as well if not better than you can through mine.” Lucius’s presence and words left Severus’s ear like silk, and suddenly he was more than aware of some other emotion that was making Lucius’s magic ripple warmly – a cat rubbing up against his side. 

It froze Severus in his tracks, but at least Lucius just chuckled a little and went on ahead into the Infirmary instead of sticking around to further embarrass the stern Potions Master. 

~^~

Draco was realizing that he hated nothing more than having to remove his robes and shirt to let Pomfrey inspect his scars.  It was like peeling everything away and leaving him bare to all eyes, even with the privacy-screens drawn and only Potter nearby, once again perched on a stool.  He may as well have been naked – or skinned alive – and even the touch of the air against his pale, scarred chest and back hurt somewhere deep inside.  He hunched forward moodily, kicking his feet against the edge of the bed as Pomfrey gave him a quick check-up.  She was doing a marvelous job of annoying the Malfoy boy’s snarky, waspish mood as she did that. 

“All right, Draco dear,” the woman finally said, while Draco kept his eyes fixed on the floor and tried not to think about Harry staring at him like the Medi-witch was.  True, Harry had seen the scars before, but Draco still thought they were disgusting. Pomfrey patted his shoulder with an encouraging smile.  “You were very lucky.  The scars are barely even enflamed-”

“Sorry,” Harry contrite voice surprised them.  Draco looked up, and instead of seeing the Gryffindor staring with morbid interest at his scars, the Gryffindor was doing what Draco was: looking down at the floor as he kicked his feet. 

Madame Pomfrey entertained a small smile, looking between the boys. “As I was saying, Mr. Potter must have corrected himself and gotten back to you very quickly, because there’s hardly any sign of Draco’s magic being riled at all.”

Harry head lifted with a jerk, surprise pleasantly on his face, and Draco met his eyes with a similar look.  For a second, he wasn’t thinking of his scars as a look of hesitant relief and happiness broke across Harry’s face – the reaction of his magic was even better, a delicious wave of happiness.  Snape was just outside, right then waiting for Lucius’s unhappiness to break across him in a crackling rush, but this was warm and light and Draco had to fight hard to hold back a returning smile.  Sometimes it disturbed him how much this Resonance affected him, and he gripped the edge of the bed to keep his reactions his own when what they really wanted to do was mirror Harry Potter’s. 

“I’ll just go back and get a Calming Draught for both of you,” Pomfrey said kindly, now giving both boys a pat.  “You’ve had an eventful day.  Harry, dear, are you sure you don’t want me to check you over, too?  With the adrenalin, you might not have noticed spraining anything, and I’ve already heard how wildly you were flying.”

“No,” Harry chirped, too quickly.  Draco narrowed his eyes at the sudden snap and crackled of the other’s magic – a little flash like a like creeping out.  Harry was clearly adamant, however, and Draco was more than Slytherin enough to see the falseness of the smile.  “I’m fine!” 

As Pomfrey nodded and walked away, leaving on side of the privacy curtains open behind her, Draco gave his companion a shrewd look. “You’re pants at lying, Potter,” he informed him flatly. 

“I am not!”

“Your magic does this funny little crackling thing when you lie,” Draco tried to explain, wiggling one hand as if that would help with to visualize the sensation, “It’s like biting into a lemon.”

Behind his glasses, Harry’s green eyes batted in pure bewilderment. Draco rolled his gaze towards the ceiling as if there really was no hope for him.  “Never mind, Potter.  Just don’t go all Gryffindor and heroic if you’re injured.  Stoicism never helped anyone.”

Harry just raised a clearly disbelieving eyebrow, but when Poppy came back, he admitted that his right wrist hurt.  He let Poppy check it over and lay on a quick spell to help speed the healing of what was a minor sprain, but skittishly declined further examination. This time, when he said he wasn’t hurting anywhere, Draco thought he was telling the truth, so he let it go.

And by that point, his father had arrived, and swept through the door with Severus quiet and sulking in his wake. 

As Lucius as Draco got deep into conversation – Draco reassuring his father he was fine, as if Lucius hadn’t been told this multiple times already – Severus and Harry watched from the outside of the familial bubble. Neither spoke, but simply watched with vague disinterest as the two blondes chatted and reassured each other, hugged on occasion and shared general, calming closeness. 

“Professor?” Harry asked softly.

Snape shifted, taking in a breath as if drawing himself away from his contemplations.  Dark eyes turned to the small Gryffindor boy on the stool next to him.  “Yes?”

“What are you going to do about…the magic I sensed?” Harry questioned carefully, keeping Quirrell’s name out of it as if afraid he was finally going to be told that he should stop spreading slander against a teacher.

Severus could smell the Calming Draught being brought by Pomfrey a mile away, and waved her off – the boys were obviously fine, and there was no use in drugging them up if there was no purpose for it.  If anything, Lucius was the one who needed to settle him down. “That, Potter, is next on the list of things to do, after Draco’s father finally believes that his son is not dying or otherwise injured.  I believe…”  He paused, not liking this decision but deeming it necessary. He took in a breath as he turned to see the small Gryffindor boy warily watching him.  “I believe it is necessary to bring this to the Headmaster. He will best be able to decide what to do about Quirrell.”

Harry had stiffened just a fraction, and Snape was actually watching as the boy’s eyes grew shuttered and seemed to age.  He suddenly wasn’t looking at a First Year child anymore, but a jaded adult in a kid’s body as Harry’s hands gripped the edges of his stool until his knuckles whitened.  Draco twitched where he was sitting, turning to Potter as Lucius got up to talk to Madame Pomfrey about Draco’s magic-scars.  “Headmaster or Quirrell?” was all Draco sighed, crossing his arms like a little prince who wasn’t going to move until he got an answer. 

Potter let out a breath, although his expression didn’t melt much. “I have to go see the Headmaster,” he said in a low tone, giving up on subterfuge of any kind.

“Which means we _both_ do,” puff Draco with a roll of his silver-grey eyes, “What about?  Don’t tell me you managed to offend Professor Snape in the two minutes you’d been sharing space.”

“Draco, so long as I am within hearing range, you run the risk of losing House points for talking about me as if I am not there.”

Draco paled noticeably at the chilled tone, and quickly cleaned up his act, straightening and dropping his eyes.  “Sorry, Professor.”

“In order to bring the _possible_ actions of Professor Quirrell to the Headmaster’s attention,” Severus stressed, “you and Potter will have to talk to Albus in person. Draco, you have to be there simply because you are still inseparable from Potter – and Potter?”

Learning from Draco’s example, Harry was sure not to show any flippancy. “Yes, Professor?”

The show of obedience nearly made Severus smirk in smug triumph, but he held it back, if only to maintain his glowering, storm-cloud façade. This was definitely one of those times that he loved his reputation as one of the most fearsome and irritable professors in Hogwarts.  However, he took no pleasure in what he said next, “You will likely be required to take a truth serum – nothing so powerful as Veritaserum, but it will be necessary so long as the accusation is against a teacher.”

Potter had grown even more closed off, the emerald green of his eyes almost darkening a shade as he watched Severus past his fringe of messy hair. “Harry…” Draco said with uncharacteristic softness, shuddering visibly as if a cold finger were stroking down his bare spine.  Severus was doing his best not to stare at the silvery magic-scars that were nearly luminescent against his godson’s pale skin, but Draco had his arms crossed in front of him nonetheless, shoulders rounded forward self-consciously as he eyed the Boy Who Lived.

Before Potter could reply with the refusal that Severus could all but see on the edge of his tongue, Severus said in a low but sincere voice, “I will be the one both supplying and administering the serum, of course, so you can trust in its validity as well as its harmlessness.  Dumbledore is required to stick to questions strictly related to the subject matter, so by the law he is not required to pry into your life – as you will doubtlessly want to keep most of your _secrets_ intact?”  The last was a wryly amused question, which had Potter nodding. 

“But I’ll have to admit that I’m a Sensitive, won’t I?” he asked, throat clearly dry. 

“Yes.” Severus didn’t believe in sugarcoating anything. 

“And all of Potter’s other bloody secrets?” asked Draco, and it was hard to tell whether he was being petulant or if that was just a façade to hide that he was actually being protective.  Severus couldn’t remember the younger Malfoy ever being protective of anything besides possessions – and the elder Malfoy was only protective of his son. Interesting. 

“I will serve as the second witness when the Headmaster questions Potter,” Severus assured them both, once again reverting to a marginally softer tone than he usually used when dealing with students…or people in general. “The Headmaster will not deviate from questions pertaining to your recognition of Quirrell’s magic, and therefore has no need to know about your myriad of other hidden surprises.” Severus could sense that Lucius was coming closer, and didn’t need to lift his eyes from Potter to know it. He watched as emotions warred on the young face even while he informed Draco sternly, “Finish up your meeting with your father, Draco.  We have an appointment to meet.  Surely Lucius will be happy to know that something is being done about the uproar of today.”

Draco’s eyebrows twitched, and he looked a bit daunted by the job of explaining this to his father…or, perhaps, pointedly not explaining it. By the flick of Draco’s eyes and the way he bit his lower lip, he was clearly thinking strategically, and deciding just how much information would appease his father without rousing his curiosity or enflaming his protective instincts all over again. Lucius was not necessarily a friend to Albus Dumbledore, and certainly would get tetchy about his son being involved in an interrogation – even if the interrogation was actually of Potter.

Severus would have handled Lucius himself, but he was worried that Lucius might be able to read any of his lies through Resonance.  It appeared that Lucius was more adept at taking advantage of Resonance that Severus had originally assumed, and there were days when all Severus had were his secrets – they wove a storm around him that defended him like a shield.  If Lucius really could see right through that, then the dour Potions Master felt truly disarmed in a way he hadn’t since the Dark Lord had held sway. 

All of that unease and hearty wariness that the ink-haired man felt towards Lucius was neatly balanced out by the inviting pull of Lucius’s smile and his cunning eyes – and the fact that Severus had liked the man more than he wanted to admit for longer than he cared to recall. 

~^~

Draco had managed to handle his father, repeating and repeating that he was fine and getting smother by the attention until Lucius finally smirked – and kissed his son’s forehead one last time – and then left.  Of course, before leaving, he wrangled a promise from Severus to join him for a nightcap later, and Severus agreed mostly to just get the other man to leave before Draco and Harry started staring and asking uncomfortable questions about why Lucius Malfoy wanted to spend the evening with the infamous ‘Dungeon Bat’.  Usually, the proposition would be quite harmless between two friends, but Lucius’s smirk was just a little bit too sly and amused to be entirely innocent – which flustered Severus to know end…and was probably why Lucius did it. 

“I should hex you, Lucius,” Severus muttered to himself as Lucius glided off, and Severus snapped his fingers a few times to call over the two boys. Draco was fully dressed again and looking far more like his pompous, self-assured self with his scars covered, and conversely, Potter looked far more nervous.  Actually, the brown-haired boy was moving like a hand-shy dog, wary and ready as he trotted along at Draco’s side. 

“Potter,” Severus said suddenly as they headed to the Headmaster’s office.

The sudden call of his name jerked Harry’s questioning face towards him. “Yes, Professor?”

“I would suggest…that you say as little as possible to the Headmaster.” It had taken a lot of thought, but ultimately, Severus had decided that Potter had to know that Albus was an entity to be wary of.  He wasn’t going to burden Lily’s son with the knowledge that Albus thought him the next Dark Lord, but somehow his conscience – underdeveloped as he knew it was – wouldn’t allow him to send the brat to meet the Headmaster totally unawares. In fact, if he could have avoided it, he would have kept the two apart, Severus realized with more protectiveness than he’d expected.  Unfortunately, business like this was firmly the Headmaster’s business, so Severus couldn’t just hide information from him.

At least, not _all_ of the information.  He was not going to unveil the secret that Harry Potter was both a Parselmouth and a master of wandless.  “Keep your mouth shut unless you’re answering questions, and when you answer questions, don’t ramble,” Severus informed the boy tightly.

“You mean,” Harry read between the lines with unexpected adeptness on his remarkably serious young face, “don’t give away the other things that I can do.”

Severus said nothing, not even turning his head as they approached their destination.  He’d already said enough, and could almost feel the uncomfortable pull of his loyalties stretching.

“So what am I supposed to do?” Draco sulked, tired of being the third-wheel in this little group.  He would walk and then trot every third step to catch up with Severus’s longer strides, trailing behind and then nearly stepping on the back of Snape’s robes whenever he caught up.

“Keep silent,” the Potions Master snapped back as he reached around and snagged the collar of Draco’s robes to hall him around by his left side so he’d stop stepping on the hem of Snape’s dark robe.  He growled at the inconvenience of it all. Potter was looking more and more leery of this idea by the second, so Severus reached around to collar him, too, on his other side.  Both boys struggled a little out of reflex, but Snape was more than skilled enough to keep hold of them. 

“This promises to be an unpleasant evening for all of us, so _do_ try not to make it worse,” he sneered at his two charges as they approached the gargoyle that guarded the Headmaster’s quarters. The snarky Potions Master jumped and glared down at his side when, unexpectedly, Harry stopped trying to slip out of his grip and instead sidled against his side. 

Never had Severus thought he’d see the day when the son of his greatest childhood tormentor was huddling next to him in evident fear. Honestly, Severus had never thought that _anyone_ would see him as a source of safety.  He had to clear his throat before grunting in his usual, dour way, “Come along. There’s no purpose in us loitering.”

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the next chapter: Harry vs the Headmaster. This should go well... And Severus is in the thick of _everything_ by this point, poor man. I'm actually rolling towards a close for this fic, or at least this arc of it, so hopefully the next chapter will see a bit of action! :D


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has no choice but to visit the Headmaster, and to answer questions under truth-serum. 
> 
>  
> 
> Basically, the chapter in which Harry hates truth-serum...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _So_ sorry for the late update - life caught up with me :P But hopefully this is not too late, and the chapter will be worth it...
> 
> Things get a bit cute at the end of the chapter, so if you don't care for Harry vs truth serum, there will hopefully be something for you to like at the end ;)

~^~

“Headmaster,” Severus bowed as he entered the room with his two charges, still being herded along by the necks of their robes.  Draco was the one hanging recalcitrantly behind by now, and Potter was being just shy of obvious in the way he was hugging Severus’s shadow – something the dour Potions Master still couldn’t begin to understand.

For all of his appearance of great age and dottiness, the Headmaster was remarkably good at hiding his reactions, and the surprise he felt at seeing Snape, Harry, and Draco flashed in his eyes for only a millisecond before being filed carefully away behind an indulgent smile.  “Ahh, Harry.  I heard you had quite a flight today.  Madame Hooch said that, danger aside, you were quite a capable flier. You might get recruited to the Gryffindor Quidditch team in your first year, at this rate,” the old man greeted cheerily. 

Behind the smile of Albus’s face and the start of pleased surprised on Harry’s, the two were eyeing each other like wary cats, tails swishing but no other outward signs of violence indicative in their postures.  “Thank…thank you, Headmaster,” Potter finally managed to say, some of his wariness buffered by the obvious praise.  Snape was not so easily distracted. 

“I actually am here to talk about the Bludger, not the acrobatics that avoided it,” he bluntly interrupted, expression patently disdainful as he gave Harry a small shove forward.  Draco was kept back by a sharp squeeze of Snape’s fingers, repositioned on his shoulder so that he felt the warning, belaying motion.  Draco, being Draco, glared but nonetheless stayed put, out of the way.  The glare turned to a look of grudging worry, however, as he felt that uneasy itch between his shoulder-blades and noticed just how tiny Harry looked before he was swallowed by Snape’s shadow. 

Snape got right to the point, seeing the way the Headmaster was eyeing the Gryffindor boy in front of him carefully.  “Mr. Potter has reason to believe that the Bludger was hexed, and that the perpetrator is Quirrell.”

That got Albus’s attention to shift, one wiry brow twitching upwards over sharp old eyes.  The question remained unvoiced until the Headmaster looked down at Harry again, however, voice querying with gentle warning, “Harry, are you sure?  That’s serious business, accusing a professor.”

Harry clenched his skinny fists, seeming to draw himself up straighten even as he got a purely Gryffindor look of stubbornness in his green eyes. Just as he was about to defend himself, however, Severus interrupted him like a huge wave upsetting a boat: “You might want to listen to him, Headmaster.  It has…recently come to light that Potter is a Magic Sensitive.” Harry’s breath gusted out of him, the wind stolen from his sails and now some fear replacing it as his secret – one of them, at least – was tossed out into open waters. The question now was whether there were sharks in said waters, and whether Harry would come out of all this unscathed.  “As much as I’m galled to admit it, the brat might know what he’s talking about. That’s why I brought him here. Where is Quirrell at the moment?”

Usually, Albus always knew what was going on in his castle, but unexpectedly, he said nothing, and Snape narrowed his eyes in exasperation. Was he really being ignored? At least Albus seemed to be listening to the first part of the dark haired professor’s narrative, even if he apparently pretending the question at the end didn’t exist. “Harry,” Albus addressed the boy again, folding his wrinkled hands upon his desktop as he leaned forward. His tone had that lowered quality that was threaded with understanding, even while it hinted at disappointment and disapproval.  “Is there a reason you haven’t told anyone about this?  _Have_ you told anyone about this?”

“I didn’t know what it was,” Harry murmured as he looked down at his toes, and Severus had to work carefully to hide a start of surprise. In his experience, very few Gryffindors were good liars…but if he was not mistaken, Harry had known perfectly well what a Sensitive was long before now.  Nonetheless, the boy was doing a remarkably Slytherin job of covering that fact up now.  He looked the picture of uncomfortable, nervous innocence as he shuffled his feet and chewed on his words before saying them.  “I thought everyone had it.  Professor Snape, though, says that’s not true.”

“Harry, can you be sure that it was Professor Quirrell who set the Bludger on you?” Dumbledore asked. 

So far, no one had mentioned any use of a truth serum, and Severus held a small hope that it would not be needed, especially as Harry lifted his eyes and answered with more steel in his voice, “I’m positive, sir.”

The hope was short-lived, as Dumbledore sighed in regret and turned his eyes back to Severus.  “An accusation like this, regrettably, requires the administering of a strong truth serum, so that no mistakes regarding the truth can be made.  Do you understand, Harry?”  He looked back to the boy, and Severus tried to see whether Dumbledore was really as regretful as he seemed, or instead craftily prepared to take advantage of this opportunity.  The old man was keen enough that the latter was more than possible. 

Despite being warned that this would happen, Harry pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes in renewed stubbornness, taking an involuntary step back. “I’m not lying, Headmaster!” he maintained.

“I know, I know, Harry,” soothed the old wizard, one hand lifting benignly, “No one is accusing you of lying.  It is simply a matter of protocol – even if Professor Snape were to come to me with this information, I would administer a truth serum before officially taking his statement.”

Now _that_ was a keen lie if Severus had ever heard one: out of all the professors at Hogwarts, Severus was the least likely to be dragged through the gauntlet of protocol. While it was true that he was rarely trusted and very often in the past had been dosed with truth serum (Veritaserum, even), Dumbledore had often done whatever possible to avoid the rest of the official protocols associated with questioning a person under a truth serum. Mostly, the Headmaster had simply wanted what information Snape could give him as swiftly as possible, and he knew that Snape’s work wouldn’t benefit from drawn-out questioning sessions with witnesses.  If Dumbledore planned on similarly sidestepping the need for following those rules now, with Harry, then he truly was convinced that the Gryffindor Goldenboy was the next candidate for a rising Dark Lord. 

Severus was quite determined to keep all of the proceedings strictly by the book, however.  “If you would call a House-elf, Headmaster, there is a suitable truth serum in my stores. Strong enough for the purpose, but not enough to have the entire contents of Potter’s head spilling out of his mouth.” He twisted his lips up in a sneer, adding because it was expected of him, “However meager those contents may be. I will also stand as witness, seeing as no one else of reasonable age and rank is available.”

Briefly, something flickered in Albus’s eyes – perhaps irritation, perhaps something else – but it was gone before Severus could deduce its meaning. Even after all of his time as a spy, Severus knew that he was no match for the almost vulpine cunning that the old Headmaster had in spades.  It was reasonable to suspect, however, that Albus had been hoping to finally get some information about Harry through the over-application of truth serum and under-representation of witnesses – unlikely, but possible. Albus cared for his students, but he had a tendency to protect the many over the one, and he’d want to take steps to ascertain whether Harry James Potter was a threat to the rest of his school. 

Looking down at the boy now, with his scrawny build and spectacles, his oversize robes and bird’s-nest hair, it was very, very hard to see what sort of threat Dumbledore could see in him.  Having heard Harry speak Parseltongue, however, and watched him use wandless and then learning that he could shut his magic off on a whim and then sense magic all around him, Severus realized that there was a lot more to this boy than his skinny, undersized façade.  In fact, Severus admitted with a subdued shiver, there were all of the makings of a lethally powerful wizard in that small package already, although he wasn’t yet prepared to label him Dark. 

The serum was summoned for, things moving along quite quickly now that Severus was backing it and Harry had turned nervously quiet instead of arguing. Draco kept fidgeting, a pale bird fluttering at the corner of Snape’s vision constantly, and he finally banished the boy to a chair in the corner.  The look he received from the aristocratic young Pureblood was scalding, and the temper behind it must have been sincere, because Harry jumped as if something had stung him, puzzled eyes turning to Draco.  As funny as it was to watch the two of them muddle their way through the little tricks and quirks that came with being Resonants (clearly the boys was not yet used to feeling emotional whiplash from each other), Severus wanted this over with.  With a flick of his wand, he summoned another chair and beckoned Harry to it. “Sit.  Now,” he succinctly commanded, then walked towards the small vial waiting almost benignly on the corner of Albus’s desk. The old man sat behind it, watching equally benignly, and Severus couldn’t help but reflect that neither was as innocent as they seemed. 

Resisting the urge to curl his lips at distaste at this whole business, Severus picked up the container and strode back to Harry. 

The boy was beginning to look sincerely frightened, but hiding it well. He was holding the edge of his seat with fingers that were growing white with tension, and his small chest was rising and falling just a little bit faster than normal – but his face was a Gryffindor mask of strained courage.  For once, Severus felt like applauded that trait, contrived and generally useless as he often found it.  “Bottom’s-up, Potter,” he dryly instructed, handing the stoppered vial to Harry, “Drink all of it.  It should taste like fennel, otherwise something is wrong.”

It was obviously ingrained to obey the looming Potions Master – either that or Potter really had decided somewhere along the way that he trusted Snape, of all people – because Harry gave one last frightened glance between the small vial and Snape’s glowering face before he gave in and drank it. What Snape had failed to mention was that it was disgustingly viscous, but at least the boy finished it off, making a face.  “Fennel,” he murmured, making it clear by his tone that he would never care for the taste again.

 

Good, that meant Albus hadn’t tampered with it. The idea had crossed Severus’s mind that the old Headmaster might try something – like switching the vial or spiking it in the seconds that Snape’s back was turned. For once, though, Severus’s paranoia was unfounded, and he breathed a miniscule, unnoticeable sigh of relief. “I want you to try and lie to me, Potter.  Can you do that?” Snape asked levelly. 

Brows quirking, Harry nodded, but Snape pressed, “That’s a yes or no question, Potter.”

The nod obediently continued, but when he opened his mouth to verbalize his answer, a choking little squeak came out instead, and he blinked in puzzlement. “I…I can’t,” he eventually got out, words clumsy but tripping past his tongue nonetheless. Blatant surprise suffused his young face, and he looked up in Severus at shock as if unable to believe what he’d just said. 

Severus merely nodded minutely, knowing how the potion worked. “If you have questions, Headmaster, now would be the time.  This particular truth serum won’t last very long, so I would suggest you keep your questions to the point.”

It was hard to tell, from the brief look that Albus flashed him, whether the old wizard read between the lines – that Albus had better keep his questions to the point _because excessive nosiness would not be appreciated_.  However, it was with a typically civil, “Of course, Severus, thank you,” that Ablsu got up and walked around his desk until he was standing just a meter in front of Harry. 

Harry, who looked like he was getting very nervous.  He was still breathing quickly, and kept glancing down at his mouth and nearly going cross-eyed as if afraid of and disturbed by what might come out of it.  When the Headmaster got closer, his fright grew more acute, and Severus reflected with an internal wince that the truth serum would probably make Potter’s distrust of Albus more obvious.

“It’s all right, Harry,” the Headmaster soothed, coming no closer. “It’s just a truth serum, no more, and it won’t make you say anything you don’t want to.  The purpose is only to ensure that nothing _un_ truthful comes out, do you understand?” If nothing else, the Headmaster had a lot of experience at calming down youngsters, and it worked enough that Harry nodded.  Albus looked up, old eyes finding the figure still fidgeting at the corner of the room. “Draco, would you mind coming over here? Being under truth serum can be unsettling for the best of us, and I imagine that Harry would appreciate your company now.”

Draco jumped at being addressed, but came over, uneasily glancing between the two adults in the room, both of whom were uncharitably keeping their faces unreadable.  Harry’s face was probably the only transparent one, his green eyes large and anxious, and Draco sped up his pace to trot over to the other boy’s side without thinking. Harry’s magic was bucking and kicking against his senses, unnoticed by everyone else, and it was a sensation both more and less annoying than the itch he’d had between his shoulder-blades up until now.  Harry was well and truly frightened.  When Draco found himself putting a hand on the other boy’s shoulder, however, some of that internal, sorcerous shuddering faded. 

Then the questions began.

“Harry, are you a Magic Sensitive?”

A nod, before Harry remembered that didn’t count.  Draco felt the other boy squirm under his fingers. “Y-Yes.”

“And you sensed Professor Quirrell’s magic today, on the Bludger that went after you?”

“Yes,” was the stronger reply. 

“Are you sure it was Quirrell?” the Headmaster asked for clarification, and it was then that Severus realized that Albus was watching Draco as much as Harry, and he began to figure out what game the older wizard was playing. Harry was the one under truth serum, true, but Draco didn’t realize that he was being scrutinized as he reacted just a smidgen to each question.  It was a smart move on Dumbledore’s part, because even though Draco was a Slytherin and a Malfoy, he wasn’t precisely trained in subterfuge.

As if realizing that Severus was on to him, however, Albus kept his questions focused and to-the-point – all he asked about pertained to the Bludger incident, and the acuity of Harry’s magic-sense when it came to identifying people by magic.  Severus began to relax his vigilance a bit, believing that he’d judged the Headmaster harshly.

One question, however, proved that Severus had merely underestimated how subtle the old man could be.  “Harry, if you had any other secrets, you know that you could come to me, don’t you?” It was such a harmless question on the surface.

But when Harry opened his mouth, and nothing but a choked squeak came out, the jaws of the trap were revealed.  Snape could have cursed: of course Harry would try to reply with a blithe, ‘Of course, Headmaster,’ and of course that would be a lie and stick in his throat. If Harry weren’t already leery of coming to the Headmaster in general, he’d be unable to truthfully say that he had no other secrets to give.  The question caught him two ways, a bird pinioned by two arrows as the truth serum prevented the false words from coming out. 

And then Draco surprised everyone. 

“Ow!!” the boy suddenly whined, clutching at his chest instead of Harry’s shoulder.  In fact, he even swayed dramatically for a moment, face all twisted up.  “My chest hurts!  It’s the scars!  Owwww!”

Usually, about now, Severus would have been the first to tell Draco to stop complaining and halt the melodrama, but now he felt a flutter of what could only be called relief and more than a little pride.  He resisted the urge to smirk.  “What is it, Draco?”

“I think that Pomfrey didn’t numb up these scars enough,” Draco continued to playact, and while he was fooling no one, there was no way for anyone to contradict him without sounding callous – especially not Dumbledore, who had a reputation as a soft-hearted old man.  That persona would suffer greatly if he ignored Draco now.

Harry was presently watching Draco with guileless befuddlement on his face. “They’re hurting? Really?”  Never had Snape been so grateful for Gryffindor gullibility – of everyone in the room, only Harry seemed to believe that Draco was suffering. 

And, of course, Draco loved and audience, and began to increase his acting until Harry got up worriedly and went to his side like a doting moth to a particularly whiny flame.  “You were all right a second ago, Draco…” he mumbled, worried and confused and still under the truth serum, and therefore quite unable to hide his opinion. It somehow made the farce all the more hilarious, and Severus had to cough to hide the laughter that was building in his throat.  If he wasn’t mistaken, the Headmaster was having to hide his expression as well, but it looked a lot more like strained annoyance was struggling to suffuse his features. The brief look he flashed Severus informed the ex-spy that he’d be facing repercussions for this later, but Snape would face that gauntlet when he reached it.  For now, he put on his most irked, Dungeon-bat face and pretended to be thunderously annoyed but also resigned.  “Whimpering in the Headmaster’s office will hardly help you, Draco, so go see Pomfrey before I take off points for your incessant moaning.”

“But I can’t go without Potter!” Draco reminded, silver-grey eyes huge.

Before Severus could level a glare at Draco to indicate that he was taking his performance a little far, Harry chimed in with far more sincerity in his tone, “That’s right.  His magic goes bloody berserk when I’m not around.”  He recalled whom he was speaking to, and shrunk back against Draco a smidgen, adding contritely, “Sir.”  His whole demeanor and tone was still as ingenuous and transparent as a crystal goblet, so it was now almost impossible to argue with him. Severus would have applauded the two if he thought that Harry had the slightest idea that he was playing a role in a drama. 

“If you’ve interrogated Potter enough, Headmaster…?” Severus archly left the sentence hanging, still pretending to be annoyed by all of this and the world in general. 

Albus had his expression back under control, and it was with a dotty sort of smile that he waved them off.  “Of course. I shall go and have a talk with Professor Quirrell in the meantime.  Harry’s account is more than enough to at least warrant a few questions on this matter, although I’m sure it is all just a misunderstanding.”

Maybe it was the truth serum, or maybe it was just Harry’s Gryffindor nature, but he immediately bristled and opened his mouth to argue – but this time, Draco’s hand was in the way.  With fingers clamped over the dark-haired boy’s mouth, further trouble was thus averted.

~^~

“Hey, Harry, where’ve you been?” Ron chirruped as his friend – omnipresent Malfoy shadow in tow – walked in late to the Great Hall for supper. As it turned out, neither had ended up being stuck in the Infirmary as long as they’d expected. In fact, Draco had made a ‘miraculous recovery’ almost as soon as they’d left the Headmaster’s office, and the only reason Snape had walked them to see Pompfrey at all had been because the truth serum was taking an unnaturally long time to wear off. Apparently Harry was not only a Magic Sensitive, but rather sensitive to that particular truth serum, and it had taken a hefty dose of antidote that tasted like horseradish to put him back to rights again.  Up until that point, Draco had delighted in asking Harry all sorts of questions as they walked, amused by the fact that Harry either had to tell the truth or seal his lips shut with an obvious blush of embarrassment or irritation coloring his cheeks. Severus had tolerated all of this by stalwartly ignoring it and walking faster. 

Basically, it was a one-sided game of Truth-or-Dare, only ‘Truth’ was literally the only option and Harry was ready to just about strangle Draco by the time they reached the Infirmary.  While they were sitting and waiting for Pomfrey to finish looking at a Hufflepuff with a sprained ankle, Draco had asked, “Why did you lie to Pomfrey earlier about hurting yourself on that broom?”

Harry had mostly given up on avoiding questions, but now his expression tightened and he looked anywhere but at Draco.  He opened his mouth a few times, only to have the serum cut off his lies and half-truths, and he grew clearly flustered. “I…I…” he kept starting, then finally sealed his lips shut with a frustrated sigh. “You don’t want to know,” was finally all he could say.

Draco was concentrating on their Resonance, the second-best trick to truth serum to figuring out what Harry wasn’t telling him.  Right now it felt like Harry’s magic was squirming up against him like a fidgety cat, tail twitching and ready to bolt.  “Of course I want to know,” Draco bluffed, looking archly down his nose to pretend he wasn’t dying of both curiosity and concern, “Plus, I can tell if you’re lying even without this truth serum business, so I’ll find out sooner or later.  You were totally avoiding having Pomfrey look at your wrist.”

“Not my wrist,” Harry mumbled, even as he rubbed at the healed limb absently. His eyes were down and his voice softer than usual…actually, he just looked smaller than usual. Most of the time, Harry seemed to exude an aura that made his skinny build seem bigger, making him seem bigger than he was, but right now, Draco suddenly felt like the sturdier of the two. Harry sighed then and closed his eyes, giving in to the inevitable and letting the truth slide past the serum without interruption, “I didn’t want her to see the rest of me. I’m…”  He shook his tousled head, fiddling with his glasses uncomfortably while Draco stared at him.  “It’s silly,” he said, picking at his robes, “I mean, she’s a Medi-witch, yeah…”

“I’m in here with my shirt off all the time,” Draco grumbled, having a hard time understanding Harry’s discomfort with disrobing for a quick check-up. Harry, after all, didn’t have the scars of a Magicseal painted across him, back and front. 

But apparently Harry’s view on things was a little bit different than Draco’s, as the Gryffindor boy lifted his head and blurted candidly, “But you look beautiful, and I’m ...”  At that moment, staring Draco straight in his startled silver eyes, Harry realized exactly what he’d said, and a bluff extended all the way up to his ears and down his neck to disappear into his robes.  He petered off, still entirely under the influence of truth serum and wishing he’d sewn his lips shut, “…I’m just all bony.”

Before either of them could say anything about the slip of Harry’s inescapably truthful tongue, Pomfrey and Severus had returned, and Harry had been given the antidote before both boys were shooed off so they wouldn’t miss supper.

Now Harry was pointedly avoiding looking at Malfoy, and was somehow still blushing red.  “Harry, you okay?” Hermione leaned back in her seat to ask. 

“Yeah, I’m fine-” he started to say – and possibly lie, because he wasn’t stuck being truthful anymore – when something entirely different caught his attention.

At the head table, all of the professors were present, with Severus just slipping into his seat…except Quirrell. 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, so I'm picking up momentum - I'm definitely going to deviate from canon for the end of this 'book', but we've got a definite Quirrell vs Harry+Draco moment coming up! And, obviously, Severus and Lucius will have to get involved, because those two need some 'bonding' time (~.^) 
> 
> Hopefully the next chapter will contain action!


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco find Professor Quirrell, and things get complicated from there... More about this chapter I will not say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, maybe I'll say a little more - prepare for some blatant twisting of canon! I've ramped up the Draco/Harry feelz a bit, too, because I couldn't help it ;)

~^~

No mention was made of the gap at the head table, but since Severus kept glancing over between Quirrell’s empty space and Dumbledore’s complacent expression, Draco was willing to bet that this wasn’t because the man who had sent a Bludger after Harry was in custody. Professor Snape always wore an expression like a thundercloud, but right now Draco fancied he could see furious lightning bolts crackling behind his black eyes. 

Draco turned his attention back to his tablemates, where he was sitting on Harry’s right side and Ron and Hermione were arrayed on Harry’s left.  The redheaded Gryffindor was still going on and on about how that _had_ to be all Snape’s fault, because no other professor hated kids as much – Harry in particular. While Harry grew quietly exasperated at defending the dour, dark man (without giving away the secrets he’d been keeping for so long), Draco began to seethe like a hot coal in a dragon’s jaws. His anger had a different direction than Harry’s frustration, though: true, the Slytherin boy was disgusted by Ron’s small-mindedness towards his godfather, but what pricked Draco’s temper the most was that Ron didn’t actually seem all that concerned about the fact that Potter had nearly _died_. In all of his ranting, the Weasel seemed more concerned about pinning the blame on Snape than he did on reassuring himself that his supposed-best-friend was truly all right. Even Draco, who had been there through the whole thing and the visit to Madame Pomfrey afterwards, felt the occasional urge still to see if Harry really was fine, and he still wasn’t sure he even _liked_ Potter.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Draco looked up through pale lashes, an askance glance at Harry’s face as he tried to talk to Hermione about books in the hopes that she’d drown out Ron.  Those same flustered green eyes and slightly strained voice had been focused on Draco in embarrassed but earnest sincerity. ‘ _He thinks that I’m…beautiful_ ,’ Draco recalled the awkward declaration, and somehow, he still felt a warm explosion of warmth in his stomach like that one Christmas when his mother had let him have a mouthful of her wine. It was the same flush of pleasure that Draco had felt every single other time he’d gone over what Harry had said to him, and even twenty silent repetition later, the feeling wasn’t fading or souring. Harry also still looked over at him, oblivious to most things but attuned enough to sense something from his blonde-haired Resonant.  As with every other time, when Potter glanced over with a questioningly raised brow, Draco gave him back a ‘what-are-you-looking-at-me-for?’ look and denied that he was feeling anything at all.  A rather confused Potter would soon forget the tingle of sensation and go back to talking.

And Draco would go back to wondering how Weasley could possibly be Harry’s best friend and why Harry would be calling Draco beautiful. 

“Bleh.”  Harry made a face, putting his cider down. The noise of distaste didn’t get Draco’s attention so much as the uncomfortable flicker of magic like a snake undulating a against his side. 

“What?” he demanded to know, unfolding from where he’d been leaned over his plate and picking moodily at his food.  Predictably, Hermone and Ron hadn’t noticed anything, and Draco took a petty moment to glare at their heads as they chatted with someone further down the table.

Harry put a halt to the glaring by pushing on Draco’s arm, withdrawing his touch and blushing after both boys realized that he was doing it.  “It’s nothing, Draco, really,” Harry assured, keeping his voice below the general hubbub of the Gryffindor table as though he were used to pitching his voice so the general populace didn’t hear it, “I think I must still be tasting that truth serum or something.  The cider tasted a bit tarter than I was expecting.”  He narrowed his eyes at his plate, though, half-finished. “Food tasted fine, though.”

“Hey, mate, you gonna finish that?”  Of course, Ron being Ron, he reached right past Hermione and snagged Harry’s goblet before any argument could be raised, and Harry just sighed.  He gave his head a tolerant shake before going back to eating, listening to Hermione rather shrilly berate Ron on just waiting for magic to refill his own goblet.  Ron protested that that took too long, and Harry was a good sport about it all. Harry’s goblet was returned to him, but it ironically did _not_ refill, and Draco felt the sudden urge to drag Ron down under the table for a swift and dirty death. He didn’t know where all of his temper towards the redhead was coming from, but he figured it had something to do with the way that Harry had almost died today, and yet had been worried enough about Draco to hold him close like a prized possession out there in the autumn wind.  Draco’s protection was merely a reciprocal reaction – and besides that, Ron was annoying on general principle, so secondary reasons were not even necessary. 

Oblivious to Draco’s growing temper, Harry began to relax and chat with his friends and house-mates, and it was the Slytherin boy who first noticed something was wrong: Harry’s magic roiled, writhing so unexpectedly that Draco shuddered and dropped his fork. He stared at Harry, but it wasn’t until a few minutes later that the green-eyed boy suddenly tensed and glanced around, expression looking rather lost.  “Draco?” he said with unexpected meekness, voice soft and quiet and…frightened. “Draco, I can’t…I mean, I don’t sense anything.  It just turned off.”

Draco blinked, bewildered and concerned in an instant.  “Your magic-sense?” he asked back, careful to make sure no one else heard him. Thankfully, no one was paying attention to the foreign Slytherin at the Gryffindor table anymore – the novelty had warn off, except for the occasional glares, which Draco ignored. When Harry nodded shakily, still looking around the room as if hoping he’d find the lost sense, Draco nudged his shoulder to keep his attention.  “So you can’t sense anything?”

“Nothing!” Harry squeaked, coming as close to panic as Draco had ever seen him – and Draco had seen him hanging nearly off his broom as a murderous Bludger whipped past him. Draco reached over on impulse, grabbing Potter’s hand before the dark-haired boy could draw attention to himself. Wide green eyes snapped to firm silver-grey ones, seeking reassurance.  It felt so…wrong…having Draco be the calm one.  Usually it was Draco being the emotional one, going off on a rant or just acting dramatic or bratty, while Potter let it all slide off him like water off dragon-scale (or put on a frosted, jaded mask befitting a face far older than his own).  Now, though, Potter looked like a ship unmoored, bobbing uncertainly in the waves and hoping for an anchor.   

And apparently Draco was that answer, since he’d taken the initiative and wrapped his fingers around Harry’s shaking hand. 

“Let’s…” He stuttered, then came to a decision that he hoped sounded logical.  “Let’s go see Promfrey then.  She’ll know…something.” He hoped.  Draco had been aloof and standoffish pretty much since childhood, but now couldn’t bring himself to remove his touch, and as he stood, he drew Harry up with him.  Before anyone could notice the two boys holding hands, Draco blushed and slipped his fingers free, only to realize that he could feel Harry’s spike of panic at the lost contact. So Draco reached out an gripped his shoulder instead. 

“What’s going on, Harry? Are you all right?” Hermione asked as her friend left his seat, meal still unfinished. At least the bushy-headed girl was a bit more observant than Weasley, because her face pinched with worry as she looked up at Harry’s tense face.  “What is it?”

When Harry started to stutter and stumble over what would doubtlessly turn into a truly atrocious lie, Draco put on his best aristocrat’s-brat face and stepped forward, smoothly supplying, “Not feeling well.  Must have been something Potter ate – or drank.”  He added the last bit in a mean tone, baring his teeth in a precise leer directed Ron’s way as the redhead paled a bit.  Hopefully this would teach him to think twice about stealing Potter’s drinks.  “So if he’s going to hurl, it would be best if he did it in the Infirmary – that was my thinking,” he finished with an offhand shrug.  He was standing next to Harry’s shoulder now, and wondered when his hand had slipped around the crook of Potter’s elbow.  Said elbow was now pressing almost uncomfortably into his side as it sought more contact, and Hermione noticed, eyes flicking to the pale fingers against Gryffindor robes. 

She opened her mouth as if to say something, brows twitching down over her questioning eyes, but the glare Draco gave her was apparently enough to dissuade her.  The girl’s mouth snapped shut, and when it opened once more it was only to say, “We’ll cover for you if anyone asks.”

“Thanks, ’Mione,” Harry managed a weak-looking smile that Draco wouldn’t have honestly expected a Hufflepuff to fall for, and then Draco was dragging him around and towards the doors.

~^~

Draco and Harry never made it to the Infirmary.

The Slytherin boy came around slowly, feeling sluggish and sore in a way that went core-deep, indicating a magical attack – he knew, because he’d inevitably been hit by a few stray spells in dueling practice.  Nothing had ached quite this badly, though, and before Draco could consider the advantages of staying quiet, a groan slipped past his lips. 

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to sneak up on a Magic Sensitive?”  The voice was almost familiar as it reached Draco’s ringing ears, continuing without waiting for an answer, “There are spells that can be used to turn off their Sensitivity, but of course someone who can sense magic will see something like that coming a mile away.  _Potions_ , however…! There’s no magic to sense, and my Master just so happened to know a Potion that would counter a Sensitive.”

Finally, Draco placed the voice, and the shock of it managed to wrench his eyes open even as he jerked his head towards the sound. 

Professor Quirrell smiled malignly back at him, a soft curling of thin lips.  “Didn’t recognize me without the st-st-stutter, d-d-d-did you?” he parodied, then waved his wand on last time over Harry’s still-unmoving body he was crouched over.  Draco made a grab for his own wand, not knowing what he’d do with it but fully intending to use every spell he knew if it meant getting Quirrell away from Harry. The sheer strength of his own protectiveness nearly petrified him, but Draco was swiftly distracted when he found ho wand by his side.  He looked back up in bewilderment to see Quirrell giving him a patronizing smile.  “I didn’t go to all of this work to catch you just to let you mess up the Master’s plans.  Be a good child now, Malfoy, and you two might see your wands again.”

Trying not to panic, Draco was at last ninety-percent sure that Quirrell was lying, and Harry and Draco would never see their wands again.  Already, the man had tried to kill one of them, and now they were in a darkened hallway that Draco didn’t even recognize.  Adrenalin was spiking through his system with the kick of electricity, but at least now, as he looked, Harry chest rose and fell.  Little threads of magic, though, were whispering out of Quirrell’s wand and sinking into Harry’s skin.  “What are you doing to him?” Draco demanded in his most arch tone, although he knew it failed miserably, because he was terrified.  His head was still ringing, and the knowledge that Quirrell had planned all of this – drugging Harry’s cider, waiting until Harry was effectively ‘magic-blind’ to sneak up on them, hexing them unconscious – made Draco feel very, very outmatched as he shakily pushed himself up on his elbow. He asked as well, trying to keep his voice steady, “How did you get the potion into Harry’s drink?”

“Mind your tone, Malfoy, you’re talking to a professor,” Quirrell chided, and then broke into a mad-sounding giggle.  He put his wand away, but some of the golden lines were still visible on Harry’s body, shimmers of gold where bare skin was visible at wrist and neck.  Slowly they, too, sank in like bodies into a bog. “Don’t worry, Potter is safe – killing him would mean depriving you of your Resonant, and that would cause _far_ too much trouble. I’ve heard a curious rumor, though, that Potter can perform wandless.”

Draco’s eyes widened, the reaction too instantaneous for Draco hide it and feign obliviousness. “How did you…?”

“I heard tell of a certain incident in Charms class,” Quirrell answered quite gleefully, adjusting his turban almost gently as he stood, “There were a few other incidents before that, so I can’t believe I hadn’t notice sooner.”  Ignoring how disturbingly cheery the dangerous professor was, Draco thought back, finally remembering when he’d first been put in Harry’s company – Harry had used wandless magic then to get back at some Slytherins, hadn’t he?  And he’d done it for Draco. Guilt rolled in Malfoy’s gut as he looked at Harry’s still form, two of his secrets now given away and being used against him, exactly as the Gryffindor boy had feared they would be.

“The spell will react if he uses his magic,” Quirrel continued to explain, looming over both boys like a Cheshire cat with a somewhat high-pitched voice.  At least the mad gleam in his eye fit the analogy. “So if he behaves, and his magic stays quiet, it will be as if the spell isn’t even there.”

Suddenly, Draco felt sick, and he was moving swiftly over to Harry’s side with a total disregard for their captor.  “A…A Magicseal?! You used a Magicseal on him?!” Draco started out rasping and then was shrieking by the end, and suddenly, he wished that Harry weren’t here – because then Draco’s magic could just explode, bonfires of magic uncurling from his skin, ripping apart everything they could reach. Harry moaned and tossed his head as he felt Draco’s knees press against his arm, or perhaps the possessive, mortified fingers that clutched at the front of his robes.

Quirrell seemed to pause and listen, as if harkening to a distant wind, and then he said almost politely, “My Lord thought it would be poetic.  It’s a different variation, of course – this one will feed off his magic to give it power.  Now, if you could be so kind as to get him up, I’ll answer your other question.  And don’t bother with yelling – I’ve got a silencing spell up even if this part of the castle weren’t deserted.”

Looking uneasily between his slowly recovering friend and the insane professor standing over him, Draco tried to recall what his other question had been.  Right now, he was interested in knowing who this ‘Master’ or ‘Lord’ was that Quirrell kept referring to like an alter-ego. As Quirrell twitched his wand warningly, however, Draco leaned back over the other boy, shaking him. “Harry.  Harry!” he called with quiet urgency, not knowing what to do but knowing he didn’t want to do it alone anymore.  Seeing the Gryffindor boy so quiet and still was just unnatural, and Draco suddenly wanted to see those green eyes.  “Harry, you have to wake up!”  At some point, Draco’s voice had turned embarrassingly pleading, and Quirrell burst into a little trill of laughter above him. The noise startled Potter into opening his eyes, bleary jade irises that roved blearily for a second. Then he noticed Draco’s frightened face hanging above his, and Quirrell’s smug one high above that like a malignant sun.  Harry immediately bolting into a sitting position before crumpling over with a cry, the lines on his skin flaring with the smell of burning flesh. 

“Harry, stop – don’t do that!” Draco hurried to tell him, because Quirrell was just watching menacingly, that ‘listening’ look on his face again as he studied his handiwork. The Magicseal on Harry did indeed look different from Draco’s – more like a net of garroting wire all over him, invisible until awakened by Harry’s magic.  Just now, Harry had apparently wandlessly called on his magic with enough strength to nearly cripple himself, and Draco found himself with his lap full of panting Gryffindor as the other boy swooned for a second. “It’s a Magicseal, you idiot,” Draco hissed, turning snarky because it was either that or cry. Harry felt so…small…curl up against him like this, thin, knobby shoulders heaving and his limbs folded like dropped sparrow-bones.  Draco awkwardly wrapped his arms around him while Harry’s ruffled head of dark hair pressed with a dazed whine into his stomach.  “Don’t try to push against it, or…”  He couldn’t finish: if Harry fought the spell, he’d probably not only fail to break free, but he’d hurt himself and end up scarred like Draco was.

“Hurry up now, Malfoy,” Quirrell was growing impatient, an ugly sneer twisting his narrow features, “Your first question was how I drugged Potter’s drink, and that was easy – usually, the Master of the Castle would know the instant someone tampered with the spells on the Great Hall, but Dumbledore isn’t the Master of Hogwarts right now.”

To be perfectly honest, Draco barely knew what Quirrell was babbling on about.  It took a bit of memory work to eventually recall his father talking about something like this, but Draco had never really thought seriously about Hogwarts having a Master.  Fortunately, Quirrell – now that he was not hiding behind a stutter – had a love of monologuing. 

“That old coot can have the whole castle at his beck and call, if he put the effort into it, but my Lord and I took that from him.”  That mad grin was back, a crooked slash across Quirrell’s face.  He reached up absently to touch his turban like it was a nervous twitch.  “So now I really only had to get the potion past the House Elves in the kitchens, which isn’t really so hard.”

Harry was nearly recovered now, and rocked upwards to rest, kneeling, on his heels.  He was still sagged forward with his expression set in a grimace, but now the dazed shock was gone to be replaced by something closer to a ferocious scowl.  Eyes tightened by lingering pain, Harry glared up over his glasses at Quirrell, eyes bright and fierce beneath his dark fringe of hair.  “What do you want?” he gritted out with a Gryffindor’s suicidal boldness, “Are you going to kill us?”  Draco wanted to slap a hand over his mouth just to get him to stop talking, because Gryffindors truly took bravery too far for his liking.  Instead, he desperately helped Harry to his feet, letting Harry say Gryffindor things while he did the Slytherin thing and tried to take stock of their situation.  They were actually in a room, shabby and dusty and dark, so even if Quirrell did not have a silencing spell up, chances of them being heard calling for help were slim.

“Why, I want your help finding something,” Quirrell answered as if he were just titillated by all of this, although his eyes – whenever they touched Potter – turned darkly furious, as if there was a whole ocean of hatred swapping tides just beneath the surface. The waves of those tides lapped at his expression now and then, twisting it.  “Have you ever heard of the Sorcerer’s Stone?”

“No,” Harry said, sincerely puzzled.  Draco kept silent, because he _had_ heard of it, but Harry’s sincere ignorance was better than any of Draco’s lies. 

Regardless, it didn’t work. Quirrell switched his eyes over to the blonde boy standing at Harry’s side.  “Your Pureblooded tagalong does,” he tutted, “but all you really need to know is that the Sorceror’s Stone is…difficult to get to.  It’s protected, but your dear Headmaster made sure to engineer a second, less deadly path to reach the Stone.  A path that only the Master of the Castle can get to open.”

“Then no one can open,” Draco spat.  He wasn’t much for Gryffindor rashness, but Pureblooded snobbishness he had in spades, and he’d been taught enough manners to know all the best ways to abuse them. He narrowed his eyes archly in a silver-gleaming glare.  “And my father is going to tear you apart when he finds us.  That is, if my godfather doesn’t find us first.”

Instead of being intimidated or at least irritated, Quirrell’s eyes widened in faint, amused surprise. “You…you really don’t know then?” He started chuckling, and then burst out laughing, although he grew serious and raised his wand again as soon as the boy’s shifted.  “Dear boy, Hogwarts doesn’t like going without a Master.  My Lord had hoped that I’d be the one to take over the reins after his spells broke Dumbledore’s control, but someone beat me to it – you.”

Quirrell was looking right at…Draco. 

“This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” Draco found himself saying without even meaning to, which didn’t change the fact that he was speaking with absolute sincerity. In fact, it even made him a bit angry. “I’m no more the bloody Master of Hogwarts than your mother was-!”

“Draco!” Harry hissed, hauling the other boy back before he realized that he’d been stomping forward. Funny how the tables could turn, from the Gryffindor being the brash idiot to Draco playing that role. What brought Draco down from his temper, however, was the glint of gold thread out of the corner of his eye, a burning glow through Harry’s skin to show that he was straining with his magic again. Draco found his eyes fixed on the thin, metallic line that glowed and faded with each of Potter’s breaths, like a delicate choker around his neck. 

“Harry…” Draco murmured under his breath, worried, and the Magicseal faded away.  Harry went back to glaring at Quirrell impotently again, but now Draco fisted his right hand in the back of Potter’s robes as a way to ensure that they both stayed in place instead of doing something foolish. He half-expected Potter’s magic to fizzle against his curled fingertips through the material, but apparently the bespectacled boy had learned his lesson. 

“I see you don’t believe me,” Quirrell observed in that tittering voice of his, and Draco just resisted the urge to say something smart about Quirrell’s powers of observation. The situation was too dangerous for mouthiness, and Draco had spent enough time at the hands of Crabbe and Goyle to know about that. 

Harry, it seemed, was likewise educated in being outmatched and outgunned and facing unknown peril. He kept his mouth in a grim and angry line, and while his green eyes sparked defiance, the rest of him spoke of submission.

Draco took a breath, and said quietly this time instead of insultingly, eyes on Quirrell’s wand for signs of trouble, “I’m _not_ the Master of Hogwarts. I can’t be.”

“You can, and you are – you see, young Malfoy, the castle has already let you past the first ward.” Quirrell gestured to the room, old and abandoned and like no other location either boy had seen in their short time at Hogwarts.  “We’re already on our way. Now, either you can keep on leading the way, young _Master_ -” He actually laughed on the last word, making Draco flinch under the obvious insult.  Now it was Harry grounding him, leaning subtly against his shoulder; green, sympathetic eyes flicked temporarily to Draco’s stressed grey ones. “-Or I can start threatening your Resonant. It seems you care for him, so it would be quite traumatizing, I imagine, if I were to start stripping his skin from his body.”  Quirrell had walked forward even as both boys back up, halted by the nearest dank wall, and Quirrell’s wand nudged up under Harry’s chin until he was forced to tilt his head uncomfortably back.  Potter didn’t lose his edge of valiant defiance, but he did make a small noise of discomfort as the wand – clenched tightly in Quirrell’s fanatic grip – pressed bruisingly against one of the tendons of his throat. 

“Fine!” Draco barked, seeing no other option and no way to reason with a professor that had obviously gone mad. “I’ll do whatever you say! Just put the bloody wand down and let Harry be!” he demanded, as his magic began to burn beneath the surface. Because Harry was there, it was not unleashed, but he could feel the potential like stormy seas beneath the surface. 

Once again, he wished that he were alone, so that he could unleash that torrent on the wizard before him. He’d drown the whole room in angry magic if that was what it took to stop the threat, but he couldn’t do that with Harry there. 

And since Quirrell seemed to know a thing or two about Resonance, he was making sure that the two remained a package-deal.  He dropped his wand and backed up, but beckoned them both forward.  “I’m glad you could see reason.” 

As the two boys reluctantly walked where Quirrell directed – through a door that opened before they even came to it, to Draco’s unending shock – it was impossible to miss the rage on Quirrell’s face every time he looked at Harry.  No, this wouldn’t end well unless they found a way out before they reached the Stone. 

“How in the world,” Draco had to ask, voice edging into hysterics even though he tried to keep his volume down, “did I become bleedin’ Master of bloody Hogwarts?!”

“I dunno,” Harry shrugged, just as bewildered.  He watched as another door opened up on front of them, one that Quirrell had tried and failed to open just to prove his point.  Above them, they heard a soft series of growls in three distinct pitches, so low that it was like a chorus of thunder.  Whatever path they were taking, at least it seemed less fraught with danger than _that_ one.

Not unexpectedly, Quirrell was eavesdropping, and was only too happy to chat some more – it was as if he’d been saving up words ever since he’d been forced to fake a stutter, and they were all yapping to get out now.  “It’s too complicated for me explain it all to children, but you can think of it as Hogwarts reaching out and grabbing your magic when you unleashed it on my Troll.”

“That was _you_?” Harry spun around, but quickly turned back again when he found a wand in his face.  It seemed that Quirrell was willing to be civil and careful with Draco – his ticket to the Sorcerer’s Stone – but Harry he was just waiting for an excuse to hurt.

That answered remained unanswered, but it was pretty clear by this point that it had been Quirrell who had let the Troll in.  That Troll, apparently, was also the reason that Draco had ended up Master of Hogwarts… “Before I could attach the castle’s allegiances to myself, some other unexpected use of magic took it away from me – you, Malfoy.”  The professor came up close enough to dig the fingers of one hand into Draco’s shoulder, eliciting a yelp while Harry was kept at by with a wand hovering too close to his ear. “My Master was greatly displeased.” After making Draco squirm for a bit, Quirrell backed off again, returning to his duty of moving the boys forward at wand-point.  “Perhaps I should have expected it.  The castle has always favored you, Malfoy – even with your magic crippled, you still navigated the castle, after all.”

‘ _That was because of the paintings, not the castle_ ,’ Draco wanted to say, but decided that now was not the time to correct the madman. Draco was quite sure that he would have noticed becoming the Master of Hogwarts, and was therefore pretty sure he hadn’t, and wasn’t…which left him at a loss to explain why doors were opening up before him and Harry. 

The thought echoed in his head. ‘ _Him…and Harry_.’

Harry hadn’t let off an explosion of magic like Draco had – he’d done the opposite.  He’d become a black hole, and utter absence. Before that (and, honestly, since that) Harry used magic like breathing, and he was definitely a lot more powerful than people thought.  Harry had also been so out of it after turning his magic off and on again that he probably wouldn’t have noticed if Hogwarts had bloody come and worshipped him at the time.

And since they were inseparable, it made sense that Quarrell wouldn’t realize his error.

Sadly, that put Draco and Harry in an even worse position.  If Draco were truly the Master of Hogwarts, he theoretically could have called upon the castle to do…something…he wasn’t sure what…but if Harry were the Master, he had a Magicseal on him that prevented him from doing much of anything.

Just to be sure that he wasn’t Master of the Castle, Draco tried to think…castle-commanding thoughts. When abso-bloody-lutely nothing happened, he grumbled mutely to himself and went back to just thinking. Most people thought that the Malfoy family was dangerous because they had money and influence, but Draco’s father had taught him one thing early on, and taught him well: Malfoy’s were dangerous because of their minds. 

Draco began to think of a plan.

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun-dun-dunnnn!! *cliffhanger music* Sorry about that - if it helps, the next chapter (and Draco's spectacular plan) has already been planned out in my head! 
> 
> Hopefully the fuzzies between Draco and Harry are coming across as age-acceptable, since they are technically pretty young...


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quirrell has Draco and Harry. Now what?
> 
> (Crummy summary, true - but it's either that or give away spoilers!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness - if any of you have been reading my 00Q fic, you'll know that I'm very being in posting! Bear with me as I survive the last few weeks of this semester of school...

~^~

Draco was getting increasingly uneasy with the way Quirrel kept glancing at Harry.  The professor was clearly insane, muttering to himself and referring constantly to his ‘Lord’, but every time his eyes slid to Harry, Quirrel’s expression slipped from madness into hatred. Pretty soon Draco found himself walking any way he could just to keep between them, because he’d seen similar lights in Crabbe and Goyle’s eyes when they’d spotted Draco and had wanted to pound on him.  Harry wasn’t exactly friendly either, but other than constant, unbridled glares from behind his dark hair, Potter didn’t do anything rash.  Draco remained docile, knowing from experience that that was sometimes the best way to deflect negative attention.

It worked with both Crabbe and Goyle and with his mother, whose mood could be unpredictable at times. 

“Go on, Malfoy,” Quirrell urged as they reached another door, the excitement increasing in his voice until he was nearly twittering and breathless when he talked now.  It was almost as bad as his stuttering.  “Command the door to open.”

“Not that I have the faintest idea how to do that,” Draco muttered under his breath, stepping forward while surreptitiously hooking his fingertips in Harry’s robes, ensuring that the dark-haired boy followed.  As with every other time, the locks on the door clicked and it opened without any overt effort being exerted, but this time, Potter gave a startled blink as if someone had breathed on his nape.  He must have reached for his magic, because the Magicseal flared like a burning noose around his neck, but only faintly and briefly – not enough to do anything more than make Potter twitch.  As Quirrell came forward and shoved the two of them through the now-open door, Draco let himself fall to his knees just because he knew that Potter would lean down to help him up.  Potter was bloody predictable that way. 

“Did you open the door?” Draco breathed in Harry’s ear as the other boy pulled him up to his feet, the Malfoy boy momentarily overbalancing so that he had the excuse to be that close.

Potter jerked, eyes completely bemused as he pulled back to stare at Draco. “No, you did.  Master of Hogwarts, remember?”

“No, I’m not,” Draco corrected him candidly, turning back to keep and eye on their kidnapper before he could see the utmost look of befuddlement that leapt onto Potter’s fac.  Quirrell’s attention was elsewhere, so he missed the look, too – his own eyes were sweeping around the room, which contained a few odds and ends, a large mirror, and very little else.  By the way Quirrell was dancing about, it looked like this room was their destination, and Draco’s stomach knotted up with apprehension. 

If this was their destination, then Quirrell wouldn’t have a lot of use for two first-year students anymore. 

“Potter,” Draco hissed, keeping his narrowed eyes on Quirrell as the man continued to mutter to himself with growing jubilation.  “Potter, we need to get out of here.”

“Can’t,” Harry murmured back, already standing tense and alert at Draco’s shoulder. “Quirrell put some sort of spell over the door we came through.  Whatever…or whoever…has been opening the doors, it won’t work now. If I had my magic maybe…” Harry cut off with a pained hiss as he tried to break through the Magicseal again, and Draco immediately rounded on him, grabbing his robes.  Idiot Gryffindors and their insistence on fixing problems with brute force…!

Quirrell noticed the momentarily rebellion on Harry’s part, and spun around, a little vindictive smile quirking up his mouth at a jaunty angle. “Now, now, none of that, Potter. You’re only making it worse by struggling.”  He took in Draco’s scowl and the way the Slytherin boy had been giving Harry a little shake to get some sense into him.  “You should listen to Mr. Malfoy here.  He seems sensible.”

Harry never broke eye-contact, glaring at Quirrell even as Draco tried rather desperately to distract him before verbal lead to physical antagonism. “What do you want with us, Quirrell? Surely you’ve got what you wanted now,” Harry challenged in a voice that was admirably firm, but also utterly idiotic, in Draco’s mind. 

Briefly, Quirrell’s smile faded to a vexed frown, but he wiped that away swiftly an reached up an absent hand to touch his turban.  “Well, not quite.  Soon, though – soon!  Until then, you two can sit tight, in case I still have need of some first-year brats.” Quirrell pulled out his wand and immediately slashed the air with it, and almost before Harry and Draco could flinch back, the air around them was thickening and solidifying into ropes, which reached out and grabbed at them like snakes.  Both Draco and Harry were remarkably hard to catch – both having learned to escape the eager hands of bullies – but mere seconds saw them stumbling and sitting down awkwardly on the floor, bound back-to-back in magical rope.

“There.” Quirrell seemed quite happy with himself.  “Now, if you boys behave, this will all be over quickly.”

“He’s going to kill us,” Harry whispered with solemn surety, his voice shaking only faintly.  Draco had no idea how the other boy kept his tone as steady as he did, as if it had been infused with ice until only the barest tremors were allowed.  Draco himself had to take a few deep breaths, curling his toes inside his shoes as he felt himself hyperventilating.  For a moment, he curled in on himself, blonde head tucked down against the ropes constricting his chest, feeling his shoulder-blades arch against Potter’s. “Draco?  You okay?”  The poky spine against Draco’s back shifted as Harry twisted, trying to see him.

“N-N-No!” Draco hissed as loudly as he dared, lifting his enough to assure himself that Quirrell was ignoring them again.  “No, I’m bloody not okay!  We’ve been kidnapped by a psychopath who’s after a _bloody_ powerful _bloody_ stone, and you’re wrong – he doesn’t want to kill us.  He wants to kill _you_.” When Harry jerked in surprise, Draco emitted a mirthless, bitter chuckle and wriggled a bit.  “I know that look he’s giving you, Potter. Crabbe and Goyle used to give me that look, and I’d wonder if they’d finally kill me this time instead of just bruising me up a bit.”

Against Draco’s back, Harry was completely still – in shock, Draco thought at first, until the other boy replied quietly and in a dead sort of voice, “I know that look, too.  My uncle gave it to me. And so did my cousin, Dudley. It was pretty much the only look they gave me that had any feeling in it at all, so sometimes I don’t take it seriously. Sorry, Draco.”

Trying and failing to contort around and get a look at Potter’s face, Draco gawped a bit and tried to think of something to say, finally landing on, “Why-?! Why in Merlin’s name are you apologizing to _me_ for, Potter?! That’s just weird. Never mind – never mind.” Before Harry could come up with an answer to that question (a useless question to hide how shocked Draco was to learn that Harry’s home-life sounded worse than Draco’s early school-life), Draco clenched his hands until his fingernails bit painfully into his palms, centering him.  He had to _think_!  “We’ve got to get out of here.”

“No kidding,” was Harry’s deadpan response.

“Shut it, Potter,” retorted Draco distractedly, worrying his lower lip as he felt Harry start to squirm behind him.  Draco had stopped trying to get loose, knowing that magical ropes were designed to maintain their hold on their victims, regardless of struggling. Even as Harry’s determined efforts began to rock Draco back and forth, he kept thinking.  “I…I have an idea,” he finally said.

Harry stopped.  “That was fast.”

“I thought of it earlier,” Draco dismissed, still biting the inside of his lip and imagining he tasted cowardice on his tongue, “It’s just a bloody awful plan.”

“Well, any plan would be good now,” coaxed the Gryffindor hopefully, and maybe a bit impatiently.  Harry’s head bumped the back of Draco’s skull as the Gryffindor boy twisted his head to look over at where Quirrell was now pondering a mirror, looking frustrated.

Draco managed to extend his hand enough to pinch Harry to get his attention back.  “Stop getting distracted! I’m not kidding that this is a bad plan. I…I need you to turn off your magic.”

Harry managed to hit Draco’s skull again as he twisted his head around, and this time, when Draco turned his head as well, each managed to turn one eye upon the other – Harry’s green eyes wide, Draco’s narrowed. “What?  Why?”

“You were the one who said that any plan would be good right now.”

“Stop stalling, Malfoy.  I just want to understand – I’m not saying I won’t do it.”

Actually, Harry sounded pretty determined.  Determined enough, in fact, that Draco’s expression eased a bit into the range of surprised…and hopeful.  There was something in those green eyes that gave him courage, Draco realized – some treasure of bravery hidden in the jade fissures of those irises. As swiftly and concisely as he could, Draco explained his idiotic, dangerous, foolhardy plan, wishing he had another.

In the end, Harry said nothing.  He didn’t even ask any questions.  All he did was keep one green eye fixed on Draco – unwavering emerald on worried, fearful silver – and then nodded.

Harry took a deep breath, and then shut his magic off with a dull snap that Draco could feel right to his core, as if hands had reached out and grabbed his spine – and had given it a shake.  It was almost worse than the first time, making Draco feel momentarily off-balance.  Since the last time Harry had turned off his power, he’d gotten so used to feeling Harry’s magic that now he felt as if a vital part of him had simply been amputated, and he heard Harry gasp before he felt the weight of the Gryffindor slouch against him. Belatedly, Quirrell turned, face fixed in a frown. 

‘ _Too late_ ,’ Draco thought in mortified triumph as he felt his own magic roar up to escape through the void that Harry had left behind.  It started as a burning as the magic-scars twinged and throbbed, but with every breath Draco took, his magic fanned hotter and wilder, until it was beginning to lap against the shores of his skin…and roll beyond that.  Draco’s magic was an ocean that he was too young to carry, and his magic was now a tidal-wave. 

The logic of Draco’s plan was simple: Harry could do wandless, but Draco couldn’t – and Draco didn’t have his wand.  That meant that either Harry’s Magicseal had to be broken (something that Draco didn’t know how to do without scarring Harry as Draco had been scarred), or Draco had to learn to do wandless.  So far, the closest Draco had ever come to the latter was when his magic ripped free, and that only happened when he didn’t have Harry.

The Magicseal kept Harry from using magic.  But it did absolutely nothing to stop him from snuffing it out like a candle, and Quirrell could only stare in shock as ripples of power began to arc along Draco’s skin, eating away the ropes like piranha. Harry was sagging, limp and unmoving, while Draco arched like a drawn bow, teeth gritted.  As a particularly vibrant band of bluish magic coiled up from his sternum and then ran all the way up the underside of his jaw – like a strip of skin being town away from Solar Plexus to chin – Draco’s mouth unlocked in a scream.  The magic burned hotter, feeding off the pain and fear like fuel. 

‘ _Harry_ ,’ Draco reminded himself as the pain began to eat away his thoughts, ‘ _Harry…Harry is here.  I can’t hurt Harry_.’ It was hard to keep his magic at bay – it wanted to rip and tear at everything, to run free, to spill free of this vessel that was too small for it.  With his magic turned off, Harry was just another fixture in the room so far as Draco’s magic was concerned, and already it was mouthing at the Gryffindor’s robes and rushing swift, blustering fingers through his hair. It would be burning his skin any second now, because Harry was completely defenseless without his magic.

Hearing Harry whine slightly – a thin, high noise that somehow pierced the growing crackle and howl of magic – Draco focused, cutting off his own ragged scream that he hadn’t realized he’d emitted.  ‘ _No_!’ he told his magic, imagining he felt a ripple of surprise flow through the beast inside of him, ‘ _No.  You listen to me, if only this once_.’ With that, Draco began to clamp down on his magic, like a child clutching and dragging at a tiger’s tail. It wasn’t much, but Draco was determined – mindlessly so – and he focused all of his attention on pushing his magic _around_ Harry.

Slowly, a cocoon formed around Harry – a bubble in a mad sea – and blood began to trickle down Draco’s hands where his fingertips were biting into his palms.  He didn’t care what else his magic did, so long as it left Harry alone, he decided. A storm was forming around him by now, Draco’s fully matured magic taking advantage of its freedom and wreaking absolute havoc on anything that wasn’t Harry James Potter. Draco gasped and cried out as the force of it started to tear him apart, but he bared his teeth in triumph as the magical ropes around him and Harry were shredded to nothing. The items in the room were soon following suit, and Draco could hear Quirrell shriek as the mirror shattered.

Draco was kneeling on the floor by now, head touching the floor between his elbows as he curled his arms around his head – an instinctive response to try and protect himself from pain.  It was a useless effort and he knew it, but he couldn’t stop, because the pain was becoming unbearable and the magic just kept coming.  He hadn’t planned any further than this, had he? He couldn’t remember… The only thing he was comprehending right now was power and pain, the former filling him with pleasure so vibrant that it should have been lethal, and the latter overwhelming him and making him scream until no more sound could come out.  Draco rocked on the floor as magic in silver and blue and sea-foam green inundated the room, beating against the shield Quirrell had conjured around himself in an effort not to be summarily slain.  His eyes were huge, as if he couldn’t figure out how this had happened, and the turban had slipped on his head. 

Next to Draco, Harry’s eyes snapped open, paler than lichen. The shock of turning off his magic had been worse this time, probably because of how recently he’d last done it – that always made it riskier to do.  The emptiness was an ache in him, a yawning, empty howl that made it feel as though his ribs were going to implode inwards and skewer his heart. He didn’t want to get up. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to even _breathe_.  It was all too difficult, and he felt as if he were carrying something dead and heavy around inside of him instead of the pulsing magic he was used to. That wasn’t what had him focusing, however, and desperately trying to re-gather his concentration. No, what made Harry grunt and push up off the floor was the sudden feeling of something _else_ dissipating and dying away inside of him.

Harry’s Magicseal…Quirrell had said that it fed on his magic, hadn’t he? It had been completely deprived of all magic just now, and with a delayed jolt of surprise, Harry realized that he couldn’t feel it anymore.  Like a fire with all oxygen removed, the spell had died.  Harry was almost too drained and empty-feeling to be elated, but he smiled a bit, letting his cheek lie against the floor again.

Then he heard the howling all around him. 

Yes…Draco.

It took a bit to realize that he was at the eye of the storm, miraculously untouched while the rest of the room had already been reduced to a wasteland.  The very walls were groaning as Draco’s magic bit and tore at the stone like a caged Werewolf. It took much less thought on Harry’s part to realize that Draco was screaming and crying next to him, a huddled form on the floor who had ripples of magic coming off him like the flames of a bonfire.  The shrieks were ragged and broken at the edges, wet from tears and a throat swiftly scraping itself raw. 

Harry forced himself to turn his head, frowning as he saw that Quirrell was still standing – his shield was pretty strong, even if Draco’s assault had taken him by surprise. 

This had to end…

Closing his eyes and concentrating, hoping that he was right about the Magicseal – and that Draco was right about Harry being Master of Hogwarts – Harry turned his magic back on with a forceful jerk of his will.  It felt like shoving a key into a rusted lock and giving it a wrenching twist, but it gave way, and his magic lumbered back out of whatever dark place it went to sleep.  Harry braced himself for the sluggish way his magic would move, as it always did after being awakened. 

He was therefore surprised when it roared completely to life as swiftly as an eye opening.   The force of it rocked the room like an earthquake, and Harry worried that he’d black out. As it was, he ended up gasping air into lungs that momentarily refused to expand, and was grateful that he’d already been prone on the floor.  Draco must have thrashed in shock next to him, because he felt a shoe connect with his leg, but Draco’s magic was still roaring loudly enough that he couldn’t hear any noise that Draco made.  Draco’s power battled against Harry’s returned magic.

And then faded away with a dull thud that was like the absence of sound itself, leaving only a thin, tailing mewl from Draco before the pale-haired Slytherin sagged onto his side.  He was panting, his scars glowing through his robes, but the rictus expression of pain on his face finally relaxed and faded. 

‘ _Okay, Harry_ ,’ the Gryffindor coached himself, getting used to having his magic back, ‘ _Draco said you were Master of Hogwarts now. Time to do Masterly stuff_ …’ He felt nauseous and incredibly dizzy, but half of that might have been because the stones beneath his hands and knees were actually rocking, he realized.  ‘ _How in the world am I supposed to do this_?!’ Hoping that this would be a lot like wandless…or a lot like talking to the paintings…Harry looked up at where Quirrell was staring at him with wariness and rage, and flattened his hands to the floor beneath him.  “Umm…Hogwarts?” he asked quietly, feeling silly as his voice filled the newfound silence. “You listening?”

He could see the moment that Quirrell realized his mistake. “You are the Mas-?!” he nearly shrieked.

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted freely, not caring if Quirrell heard his murmur or not as Harry sat up, “but I know that I outsmarted your Magicseal pretty well.”  With that, Harry turned his attention to the broken pieces of mirrored glass on the floor, and brought them hovering into the air like a glittering storm as he concentrated. His magic vibrated beneath his skin, giving an experimental flex before accepting the lack of restraint and letting loose.  The pieces of mirror felt weighted, heavy with power, but Harry just gritted his teeth and focused harder, forcing the sharpened shards up into the air and whipping them towards Quirrell with everything he had. 

Whatever magic was in the mirror causes a few of them to nearly break through the shield Quirrell had lifted – a few of them imbedded halfway through it like hurricane detritus imbedded in Plexiglas.  Quirrell’s shock was total, his eyes wide, but his turban had slipped further to allow an eerie, rasping hiss to escape: “Kill him!!”

Harry froze at the sound, his magic hesitating, and that allowed Quirrell to regain his equilibrium and mount a counter attack. 

Draco had been dead to the world, but cried out now as something sharp flashed through the air and lacerated his cheek.  “Draco!” Harry yelped, and in that second, Hogwarts finally responded.  The stones on the walls began to fold inwards even while the floor buckled, throwing Quirrell backwards even as some stones began to fall from the ceiling. 

The scary thing was, Harry still didn’t think he was the one controlling it – at least not entirely.  Draco had his eyes open and had a shaking hand clutched to his bleeding cheek, but still looked dazed from releasing his magic.  More out of Gryffindor reflexes than anything else, Harry lunged to lean over him, on hands and knees while he defended the slender, pale form under him. He considered turning his magic off again and letting Draco’s ferocious magic defend them, but he didn’t think that _either_ of them would survive something like that again, and it wasn’t like a Gryffindor to just leave the hard work to others without at least trying to fix the situation themselves. So Harry did the first thing that came to mind: he levitated the pieces of broken mirror, reaching for the shattered magic in the shattered shards, and pulled them up over himself and Draco like a shifting, cracked shield.  He’d felt the pieces wanting to stay together when he’d started hurling them at Quirrell, and now felt a blast of relief as they fused with one another now. Harry’s determined will had a lot to do with that, as he gritted his teeth and focused on how he wanted his magic to melt the pieces together – anything to keep himself and Draco safe.

Things continued to rumble and move and fall all around them, but under the dome of mirrors, neither boy cared, because both had finally passed out from exhaustion next to one another.

~^~

“Mr. Potter.  Mr. Potter.”

The words kept repeating…his _name_ kept repeating, in cultured tones that he almost recognized. Harry squeezed his eyes shut a bit tighter and tried to block it out, because for some reason, all of him ached, and he felt like he could sleep for ages. 

The voice that came next was far more snarky, deep rolling tones submersed in irritation, “Potter, kindly wake up and talk to Lucius, so the rest of us in the Infirmary can get some peace.”

The revelation that he was in the Infirmary – and no longer in a collapsing room somewhere in the bowels of the school – and the added shock that Snape was there, too, had Harry’s eyes snapping blearily to half-mast. A blonde form was leaned over him, but the hair was too long for Draco’s.  Harry narrowed his eyes, and didn’t understand the slight gasp from the man above him.  “His eyes-”

“Yes, Lucius.  Now, kindly keep your trap shut about that,” Snape snarled from somewhere nearby, and then there was the sound of movement and the pale-haired head was replaced by a dark one. “Potter, if you feel up to it, I’d love to know what business you have turning your bloody magic off again,” Snape said in a voice that was somehow both warning…and grudgingly worried.

Harry blinked a bit more, realizing that his eyes were probably that odd pale color…something he’d have to think about hiding in the future, unless he wanted it to get noticed.  Or he could just stop turning his magic off, he figured.  The latter option was lovely, but probably hopeless, considering how often his Gryffindor tendencies got him into trouble.  “D…” he started, throat crackling until he swallowed twice. Then Snape – scowl deepening – was pushing something against his lips, which turned out to be a truly vial potion instead of water.  Harry choked and sputtered, but his throat worked just fine when next he tried to speak. “Draco.  How’s Draco?”

Lucius was sitting back now, in one of the visitor chairs, to allow Snape to lean in, and the aristocrat snorted out a laugh that sounded suspiciously like “So Gryffindor.”  He was saying it in an unexpectedly friendly tone, though – almost affectionate instead of scornful.  If Lucius was being kindly towards Gryffindor selflessness, that meant Draco couldn’t be that bad off, but Harry still turned his head until he could see the next bed over. He sighed in relief as he noticed Draco, sleeping on one side with a bare shoulder just peeking out from under the blankets. Someone had probably had to remove his robes and shirt against to treat his scars; there was a privacy curtain drawn around both beds inclusively. 

“Draco is fine,” Lucius answered, looking pleased.  Just what exactly had him most pleased was up for debate: Draco’s health or taking note of Harry’s oddly pale eyes.  Harry gulped reflexively, wondering just how smart someone had to be to realize that he’d turned off his magic…  By the way Lucius’s smile broadened and turned more predatory – about as smart as Lucius Malfoy.  That was one more secret that Harry had lost his grip on, but there was little he could do about it now.  

By the almost sympathetic look Snape was directing down at him, the dark-haired professor understood perfectly.  “After you and Draco failed to turn up at the Infirmary as your Housemates predicted you would, I took the liberty of searching for you. Fortunately for you, a painting noticed something odd happening which included you, Draco, and the missing Professor Quirrell.  Of course, by the time I found you and Draco, you’d nearly managed to tear a section of Hogwarts down on your heads,” Severus explained as if this was all Harry’s fault. Before Harry could scowl and instinctively defend himself, he noticed something: Snape was hiding a bandaged arm beneath his robes.  The foreboding professor was injured. 

“What happened to you?” Harry found himself blurting instead of pointing out that he and Draco had never _chosen_ to be kidnapped by a psychotic professor.  The skinny, dark-haired boy pushed himself up on his elbows to pear at the rim of white bandages just visible at the cuff of Snape’s sleeves, even as Snape jerked his arm back. 

Lucius started chuckling, and got up from his chair briefly to check on his son before returning to the bedside of the more wakeful of the two boys. “Severus here went after you and Draco without back-up – and by a decidedly more dangerous route. He got…rather chewed on.”

“No, this is from a bloody game of oversized Wizard Chess,” Snape bit back, lifting the arm and picking at the bandage.  If Pomfrey had not simply magicked the injury away, it had to have been serious. “And even if I had waited for back-up, the results would have been the same.  Albus doesn’t exactly have control over the castle to get us around the defenses of the Sorcerer’s Stone.”  Severus’s tone had turned icy enough that Harry cringed back on the bed a bit, although, as he glanced over, he saw that hungry gleam in Lucius’s eyes again. Uneasily, Harry wondered if it was entirely safe to be telling Lucius this. 

Perhaps it wasn’t, because Severus jerked his dark eyes over to Lucius’s in a glare a second later.  By then, of course, a patented innocent expression was possessing Malfoy’s features. “Sit, Severus. You hardly need more stress.”

Severus snarled something unrepeatable, making Harry’s eyes widen at the un-professorial behavior, but then pulled up a second chair and folded down into it.  Rubbing his brow with his uninjured hand, Snape commanded, “Talk, Potter.  I want an explanation.  Of everything.  And don’t even bother with keeping secrets – Lucius had figured half of them out already, and I’m tiring of keeping them from him.”

Harry was still pretty confused about what had managed to hurt Severus – a professor who was practically an unstoppable monster in the eyes of most students at Hogwarts, perhaps killable only by sunlight or smiling – but what surprised him even more was the suddenly contrite look on Lucius’s face. In fact, as the elder Malfoy looked at Severus’s bent shoulders and lowered head, something soft entered those keen silver eyes, and Harry was the only one to see an aborted movement to reach out and touch the weary Potions Master. 

When Lucius realized that he was being watch by bespectacled eyes, he pulled his hand back and his lips thinned. 

To distract himself from what was obviously not his business, Harry began to explain how his evening had gone, every unbelievable minute of it…

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you cannot guess, the next chapter should have some soft moments for Severus and Lucius - if that's not to your fancy, I plan to have some personal time with Harry and Draco, too! I'm honestly not sure where to go from here. This fic might now devolve into a series of more disparate chapters - in other words, I might jump ahead in the timeline a bit more, just to scenes I particularly want to type :3 
> 
> Such as when Harry and Draco are actually old enough to date...


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath. Severus deals with Albus...and then Lucius...and his life gets more complicated. Draco and Blaise, meanwhile, deal with a sleepy Harry, which is far less hazardous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who like the Lucius/Severus pairing, this chapter should interest you! Sorry for the long wait on this chapter - this has been the week of Finals Exams for me, so spare time has been spent studying, with only occasional fanfiction breaks :P This chapter is longer than usual, though, and one of my favorites so far - so enjoy!

~^~

Potter was just as sleepy and out of it as he’d been last time he had turned his magic off.  He barely remembered how or why he ended up back in the Slytherin common-room, although he focused enough to note that Draco was with him – under his arm, in fact, making sure he didn’t topple over and go to sleep in the hallway.  It took a bit more thinking to realize that Snape was there the whole walk, too, entering the common-room behind the two boys to glare the nest of young Snakes into silence.  It would probably have been pretty impressive to see, but Harry was focusing on walking as Draco supporting him up the stairs to their rooms. 

His thought sort of blinked and stuttered out not long after that.

Draco mentally thanked fate that Potter was a scrawny kid, because otherwise this would have been much harder.  As it was, Blaise had slipped away from the rest of their classmates while Snape was delivering his Glare of Death, and appeared on the other side of Harry like a shadow just as they reached the stairs.  “Want a hand?” he asked congenially, and propped Harry’s other arm around his shoulders without waiting for a response.

Draco wanted to remain aloof, but it was hard not to be grateful. “Do as you like,” he muttered stiffly.

Ignoring the borderline rudeness, Blaise glanced at Harry briefly – noting the closed eyes, slack posture, and zombie-like steps – and then asked with perfect nonchalance, “This like that time after the Troll?”

Having almost forgotten that Blaise had been there for the aftermath of that, Draco’s eyes jerked over to the dark-featured face. Blaise’s expression was smooth, however, his mind seemingly concentrating on helping the three of them get up the stairs without Harry tripping.  “Yes,” answer Draco finally, cautiously.  He stopped there, waiting warily to see if Blaise would push it.

As with last time, however, Zabini seemed perfectly content munching on morsels of knowledge – he knew better than to snap at the bone. Fish that took the bait got hooked, after all, but those who were patient could just tease the line. “We should just plop him down in your bed, you know,” he said unexpectedly.

Draco jerked and nearly missed a step, staring over at Blaise now with huge eyes.  He was about to open his mouth to ask what in Merlin’s name Zabini was going on about, but then Harry’s stirred and got his head to lift – the surprised flair of Draco’s magic had inadvertently rattled him to wakefulness.  “Where 're we-?  Oh. Hi, Blaise,” the Gryffindor managed to murmur, pleasantly enough for a sleepwalker. 

Instantly (and conveniently) forgetting his cryptic sentence to Draco, Blaise flashed Harry his best smile.  “Hey, Potter. Heard you and Draco were getting into trouble again.  Detention is what the rumor says, for setting off some sort of spell in the Potions lab.”

That was a complete and utter lie, and Draco knew it…and he thought that Blaise knew it, too.  But the dark-skinned boy was still smiling easily, and if that lie tasted funny, he kept it behind his teeth. 

Harry was having a harder time catching on, but at least he was trying his best. His unnaturally pale eyes – it would be awhile, Draco knew, before they regained their color – blinked bemusedly. “Er…uh…detention? Yeah, that sounds…yeah, sure.”

Draco rolled his eyes at Harry’s abysmal attempt at following along, but at least Blaise was the only one within hearing range besides Draco – and Blaise was willing to humor him. 

“It rattled a good portion of the castle.  No wonder you two look so wrung out.”

Before Harry could try his hand and replying, Draco just sighed and spat out, “What’s the story, Zabini?  Did you make it up, or did Snape?”

“Hey, I just repeat what I hear,” Blaise replied innocently, but gave in to explain as they entered their shared room, “You and Potter slipped out of the Great Hall and got yourselves into the Potions room, apparently, and blew up something in a truly Gryffindor fashion.”  Draco glared, offended, but was ignored.  “Snape found out, natural.  He got that wound on his arm trying to get everything under control again, and then, word is, he hexed you two silly before he was finally called off. You’ve been in detention since then. Not sure with whom.”

“And who’s been saying this?”

“Everyone,” Blaise replied offhandedly.  He slipped out from under Harry’s arm as they let the exhausted Gryffindor sit on the end of the bed – Draco’s bed, to be exact, which had Blaise hiding a smirk. “I’m off to see if Snape has heard the rumors.  You know he hates gossip getting out of hand,” the other boy explained as he glided back towards the door.

Draco cocked one eyebrow, easily seeing the real meaning behind the words. “Yeah, Snape would like to hear this story, wouldn’t he?”

“I’m sure he knows all of it already,” shrugged Blaise, but then he slid one eyelid shut in a sly wink.  “See ya!” With a careless wave, he slipped out the door, leaving Draco both relieved and disturbed to be rooming with…and apparently friends with…a boy who so easily sewed together whole tapestries of lies.  Those lies, at the moment, were incredibly beneficial to Blaise’s roommates. 

Harry’s brain was likely following the same path, but was having a harder time navigating it.  He just sat and stared after the slim, dark figure, looked poleaxed.  “What just happened?” he finally asked.

“That, Potter, is called an alibi,” Draco summed up, “and the boy who made that alibi is now at the top of my list of people to stay friends with.”

~^~

“So then,” Lucius mused, as he sat down with his usual, regal grace on one of Severus’s chairs, “are you going to bribe me to keep quiet about Mr. Potter?” He seemed almost amused by this.

Severus was slightly less amused, mostly because he had had a long day and was wishing it would just end.  “If I thought bribery would work, I would consider it,” Severus drawled snidely, “But I know in what categories I am outmatched.  Bribery is one in which you have had far more practice than I.”

“Ah, yes, but you are the Lord of Secrets,” smiled Lucius, still having fun. His eyes glittered suddenly as he leaned forward, and he posed the question, “And who said bribery wouldn’t work on me?”

Blinking, Severus stopped pacing in front of his fireplace and tried to find out what game Lucius was playing.  After tangling with Hagrid’s abominable three-headed dog and then facing off against the Headmaster (who was, arguably, more dangerous), he felt remarkably unfit for this kind of verbal sparring.  For the first time in a long time, he decided to admit as much, because his arm ached too bloody much for him to keep up with his old friend’s games. Pinching the bridge of his nose against a growing headache, Severus snapped, “I’m in no mood to play cat-and-mouse with you, Lucius.  Both you and I know that you are more than capable of creating an absolute political bonfire with the information you have just acquired, and my ability to stop you is…limited.”  The words pained him. He’d never had control over Lucius, but that somehow hadn’t stopped him from deeply admiring the crafty aristocrat. Likely it was that same attraction to danger that had gotten Severus tangled up with the Dark Lord in the first place. ‘ _One of these days I’ll learn my lesson_ ,’ he ruefully berated himself, with only a modicum of hope. 

Rallying himself again before Lucius could interrupt, the Potions Master pressed onwards in a tone that sharpened with his growing discomfort, “So no, Lucius, I did not invite you here to bribe you.  I was hoping to talk some sense into you, and perhaps appeal to your parental instinct – because so long as Draco and Potter are Resonants, Potter’s bloody secrets are going to involve him.”  Severus dropped his hand but kept his eyes closed, the weight of worlds seeming to rest upon his lids.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so tired, and he blamed Potter, Albus, and Lucius equally for draining him dry like this. “Nothing is sacred to a politician, I am well aware, but at least your instinct to protect family is fully functional,” he sneered, leaning against the mantle by feel.  If it hadn’t been behind him, he would have fallen over.

He felt as much as heard Lucius getting up, which was surprising, because he expected to hear a lot more than that – a witty response, for starters. Very few people dared poke the Lord Malfoy with a stick like Severus just had, so some sort of flustered or even outraged retort should have hit by now.  Instead, Severus levered wary eyes open at a light touch upon his shoulder, finding himself looking at Malfoy from only a foot or so away. The man’s face was remarkably devoid of anger, despite being the victim of Severus’s cutting tone and flagrant lack of manners.  “Severus,” the Pureblood said, and his tone was coaxing while those silver eyes ghosted over the other’s face, “I protect more than family, you know.”

“You’ll keep Potter’s secrets to yourself then?” Severus guessed, crooking a brow to show he didn’t believe it, “Without even the temptation of blackmail? Lucius, you breathe blackmail where most mere mortals breathe air.”  He moved to cross his arms before realizing that one of them had been nearly removed by the second head of a Cerberus. 

“I wasn’t talking about Potter,” was the response he got, accompanied by Lucius’s hand lowering from his shoulder to cup the crook of his elbow, gently supporting the wounded limb while Severus froze. Lucius took in the stiffening, and for the first time looked almost affronted, or at the least, hurt. “Severus, I was talking about _you_.   I’d protest you as strongly as I’d protect Draco.”

The sincerity in Lucius’s cultured voice was shocking, to say the least, especially since Severus had gotten used to hearing the Malfoy patriarch lying as often as he opened his mouth.  Even back in school, it was impossible to get past the shifting web of half-truths and whole lies that Lucius cloaked himself in – Severus had simply become the best at deciphering them.  At the moment, however, he detected nothing but frankness. 

Severus stammered.  He hadn’t stammered since entering Hogwarts, when he’d learned what weakness got you. Now, however, he found his mouth opening but the words rebelling somewhere in the back of his brain, tangling on his tongue when he tried to force out something coherent.  What finally came out was not what he meant to say at all, and had a cutting edge to it that slipped past his teeth, “And Narcissa? How does she figure in?” Jealousy that Severus had refused for _years_ to admit to reared its ugly head, finding an escape while the rest of Severus’s brain was scrambled. He immediately gritted his teeth and braced himself once the words were out of his mouth. 

In response, one of Lucius’s pale brows twitched, and a complicated array of feelings danced across his face.  Before Snape could accurately identify any of them, it was a smug, mischievous sort of smirk that settled across the aristocrat’s features. “Maybe she doesn’t figure in at all,” Lucius hummed thoughtfully, and then he was leaning forward, crowding Severus back against the mantelpiece. 

At the pressure of a mouth against his, Snape groaned, not even sure where the sound came from until he recognized the familiar vibration in his own chest – then he flushed with embarrassment.  Fortunately – or unfortunately – embarrassment didn’t do much to stop him from enjoying the experience of Lucius kissing him, the dark-haired man’s eyes falling shut of their own accord.  Lucius was a bit shorter than him, and always had been, but the Pureblood easily maintained control of the kiss, scraping Severus’s lower lip artfully with his teeth before lapping at the seam of his lips. 

When Lucius pulled back – quite in his own time, of his own accord – Severus felt dazed both by the kiss itself and by the fact that he’d been kissed at all.  Lucius’s smile had gone from teasing to predatory, silver eyes shadowed by expanded pupils.

“We shouldn’t do this,” Severus had the presence of mind to pant, and then he blinked, wondering why he was panting.  He hadn’t felt the need to breathe a moment ago, when all of him had been focused on Lucius and the man’s damned mouth.

“No one tells a Malfoy what to do,” was Lucius’s stubborn reply, said before he leaned back in again, taking what he wanted.  In between hungry kisses, Malfoy deigned to elaborate almost vengefully, “Not even Narcissa.  I like you more than her anyway.”  Severus couldn’t help the guilty rush of pride that swept through him like a trail of flame, from toes to prickling scalp.  His arm ached still, but he didn’t care anymore, which was a pleasant side-effect. “I always have, but arranged marriages being what they are…”  A reticent, regretful tone slipped into the last sentence, and Lucius stopped talking, commandeering Severus’s mouth and deepening the kiss to effectively end the conversation.  All the while, Lucius was as carefully controlled as he always was – the difference was that he was also now crackling with energy, a storm contained beneath pale skin, defined by want and hunger.  Severus pulled in a breath and hissed as one of Lucius’s hands suddenly tangled in his hair, pulling his head back, but in the place of kisses there were words murmured against his arched neck, “I’ve always liked you best, Severus.  How come you couldn’t see that?”

“It’s…” Severus swallowed, trying to keep on an even footing with Lucius even though his brain was in a fog – a pleasant fog, but it mired his intellect nonetheless.  Still, he managed to at least imitate his usual, acerbic growl, pointing out, “…A bit difficult to see past a man’s wife.”

Lucius still didn’t kiss the neck he’d bared, a sign of his brief irritation at Snape’s remark.  He did, however, give in and bury his face against the hollow of Severus’s throat, releasing a hot breath down the collar of his robes as he sighed. The sound should have been resigned, but his voice was fierce instead as he pulled a little bit harder on Severus’s hair and began mouthing at the tendons of his neck.  “Think about it this way, Severus,” he purred, a low roll of sound that seemed to seep right into Snape’s skin.  Tentatively, Severus’s hands lifted, finding Lucius’s lean waist – just one of many things he’d told himself not to even _imagine_ doing after Narcissa had come into the picture.  Lucius chuckled against his skin as if amused by the hesitant touch.  The Pureblood kept talking, voice confident even though it had grown husky, “You’re a man of secrets and a man of logic – don’t bother to deny it.  I know you too well.  How about this then? It’s logical to stay here, kissing me-” He broke off his sentence long enough to release Severus, catching the dark-haired man’s lips as they lowered. The kiss was hungry and needy, enough to make Severus tighten his grip on Lucius’s hips instinctively. Lucius eventually drew back enough to look pleased with himself.  “-Letting me kiss you.  Because as long as this-” His eyes swept between them, taking in the utter lack of personal space that had suddenly cropped up, their chests brushing with each quick rise and fall.  One of Lucius’s hands was still in Severus’s inky hair, and now stroking the back of his neck with lazy strokes.  “-Is happening, I have no interest in spreading Potter’s secrets around.”

Severus jerked back hard enough that his shoulder-blades connected painfully with the mantle.  His mind cleared a bit as wariness – sharp and brittle and oh-so-familiar – swept through his system.  “What?” he snapped, and a lot of danger was imbued in just that one word. 

Tilting his head and still smiling as if he hadn’t said anything questionable at all, Lucius at least gave an apologetic little dip of his head. “Aren’t you the one who said that bribery was off the table?  Well, now I’m saying that it isn’t.”

“Are you…”  Severus felt like he was floundering – and also like he was in dangerous territory. His heart-rate had sped up the moment he’d felt Lucius pressed against him, but now its speed was due to something other than surprise and arousal.  Things were never simple with Lucius.  “Are you blackmailing me?”

“No,” Lucius snorted, that smile still curled contentedly at one side of his face.  He hadn’t backed off, seeming quite happy to lean against the other man.  “I’m giving you permission to coerce me.”

That sounded…marginally less dangerous than Lucius trading his silence for sexual favors.  That was pretty much what this was, but with Lucius wording it in a slightly less threatening fashion. It felt like more of a…suggestion…than a coercion, but not by much.  The inviting light in Lucius’s eyes helped, as Severus studied the other man’s face carefully, looking for some signs of cruelty or the teeth of a trap. However, all he saw were silver eyes with blown pupils and the usual predatory glint that would probably only go out when the elder Malfoy died. 

Slowly, cursing himself for a fool and knowing that this was going to get complicated, Severus eased his head forward and initiated another kiss.

~^~

Perhaps he would always find himself here.  Even in his dreams nowadays, Draco found himself leaning on the sink and staring at himself in the mirror – or, more specifically, at the silver scars unrolling from his breastbone.  They were more stark than ever now, the skin around each silver line slightly reddened and enflamed from the force of the magic he’d released. Lifting a slender hand, Draco almost touched where one reaching scar slashed elegantly across his breastbone, but halted the movement when a tear hit the back of his hand.  The tear had passed mostly unnoticed down his face, trickling off his chin, soon to be joined by others.  Madame Pomfrey had given him some cream to smear on the marks, but at that moment Draco realized he couldn’t do it.  Physically, he was flexible enough to reach and tough enough to ignore the ache…but psychologically, he felt his whole being shy away.

His own weakness disgusted him, and as he lowered his hands to brace them on either side of the sink, he lowered his head, too.  More tears fell from his eyes, captured by the white porcelain while his fine hair cascaded forward to hide his eyes.  Draco told himself that he wasn’t crying until he felt his shoulders jerk, the slim muscles of his back drawing taut as silent sobs shook him.

Part of his humiliation was due to vanity – the scars were ugly, and would never go away – but most of the agony clawing behind his sternum was because he was too fucking week to even touch his own scars without something breaking inside of him. 

It was a good ten minutes before Draco was composed enough to leave the secluded safety of the bathroom, and even then, he wasn’t exactly put together. His throat ached from keeping quite while sadness rocked him, and no amount of splashing water on his faced seemed able to make his eyes less red and puffy from crying. It wasn’t a good look, and he knew it, but he also didn’t want Potter pounding on the door to see what was taking him. Pajamas buttoned up to his neck and falling comfortably over his bare feet, Draco did a quick, wary look around the room, noticing with relief that Blaise was still gone – probably off spreading his story about what his roommates had been up to.  Likely Snape would back up the lies, because the man was Slytherin enough to realize that a pretty fib was much easier to tell people than the complicated and dangerous truth. 

As it was, Draco shouldn’t have worried about Harry getting impatient for the bathroom: the dark-haired boy looked as if he’d keeled over where they’d left him, sprawled on Draco’s bed.  Still fully dressed and with his glasses askew, he was snoring softly and clearly out cold. 

“Bloody Potter,” Draco swore without heat, nonetheless hurrying around to stand over the other boy.  He reached out a hand and shook his shoulder, but all he got was a faint twitch and an unintelligible mutter from Harry in response.  Giving up with a huffy sigh, Draco propped is hands on his skinny hips, trying to figure out what to do about this.  If Harry was as exhausted as he’d been last time he’d shut his magic off and on, then waking him up would be accomplished only by running a Troll through the room, and maybe not even then.  Apparently, if someone other than Draco were to prod Harry, that would get the Gryffindor bolting awake, but there was only Draco right now – and the last thing Draco wanted was company.

Deciding there wasn’t anything else to be done about it, the pale-haired boy bent down and untied Harry’s shoes, wrangling them off his feet with a bit of effort.  “If we’re going to share a bed, Potter, I’ll not have you kicking me with dirty shoes in the middle of the night,” Draco growled.  The idea of sleeping on Harry’s vacant bed somehow never crossed his mind, or, if it did, the thought was swiftly evicted in favor of wrestling the other boy out of his outer robes. 

Somewhere in this ungainly process, Harry awoke enough to become moderately helpful. His eyes only opened to half-mast – fey slices of pale green – but he wriggled around enough to slip his arms free, although he still managed to lay on top of most of the material. Draco swore quietly, more frustrated with his own clumsiness and problems than anything to do with Harry. Perhaps some of that self-directed venom seeped into his magic, because suddenly Harry turned his head and seemed to focus.  Propped on his side on one elbow with Draco leaned over him, tugging at his outer-robes, Harry narrowed his eyes at the other boy’s face.  “Draco,” he murmured, clearly trying not to slur with his tired tongue, “Have you been crying?”

Draco froze, feeling as though he’d been slammed in the chest by something roughly as blunt and heavy as a sledgehammer – enough to temporarily unseat his heart so that it lodged uncomfortably in his throat.  Frustration burned acidic and hot in the back of his throat, and as he drew himself back and straightened haughtily, he wanted to snap, “Yes, I’ve been crying.  What of it?” But somehow, the words wouldn’t come. It was as if the resonance of their magic was binding a silken sheath of silence around his throat, soothing him into wordlessness against his will.  All of the angry, cutting words that Draco wanted to say froze and died somewhere in his voice-box, and the only way he found he could defend himself was by wrapping his arms around his chest and stiffening his back with brittle pride.  But he couldn’t look Harry in the eye. 

For someone who had been practically dead to the world up until now, Harry was doing an admirable job at wakefulness now, if not alertness. Draco felt as if he were frozen as he looked away, hearing the bed creak, feeling socked feet touch his bare toes as Harry sat up on the edge of the bed.  There was a moment of hesitation that felt like a held breath, and then Draco felt clumsy arms wrapping around his shoulders and dragging him in. A heartbeat later, and Draco was folded against Harry’s chest; his arms were still moodily crossed, but he couldn’t seem to stop his head from pressing in against the other boy’s neck, purely because he seemed to _fit_ there best.  All of him seemed to fit, even though Draco was lean and Harry was made of adolescent lankiness. Anyone who knew Draco would have expected him to wriggle loose from the hug and complain bitterly, but instead, the pale-haired first-year found himself sitting down on the bed next to Harry. The first sniffle that came out was mortifying, but Harry didn’t move except to adjust his arms a bit.

“Your scars hurt?” Harry eventually asked, hesitantly. He still sounded as groggy as hell, but surprisingly calm and unembarrassed.  Maybe being as drained of energy as he was made it difficult for Harry to be properly humiliated by anything.  “It looked like they would hurt, when Pomfrey looked at them.” Harry paused, and Draco felt the Gryffindor shuffle uncomfortably – at first, Draco thought the discomfort was because of the hug or because of Draco, but that wasn’t the reason at all. “Sorry,” murmured the brown-haired boy, weariness and regret tangled all through that one word.

“What are you sorry for?” Draco muttered back as he continued to lean into Harry’s side.  The other boy’s shoulder was too bony to be a good pillow, especially with his outer-robes finally off – somehow, though, it was still better than pulling away. The irritance in Draco’s tone was all for show, and he rather ruined it by sniffling again.

“Well,” stumbled Harry awkwardly – the drowsiness was doing nothing for his verbal skills, “It was my fault, wasn’t it?  I mean, you magic wouldn’t have gone off if I hadn’t turned my magic off.”

“We also would have probably died,” Draco pointed out, “Besides, it was my idea, remember?  So you don’t have to take the blame.  Bloody Gryffindor.” In contrast to his grouchy tone, Draco scooched a little closer.  He told himself that it was because Harry seemed precariously close to tipping over, not because he liked the feeling of comfort. 

Harry sighed, and said as if to himself, almost too muffled for Draco to catch, “Things are usually my fault.”  Silence hung for a bit then, as each boy digested what the other had said.

Or, more accurately, as Harry fell asleep.  Draco was just about to pursue this line of conversation when he felt the other boy’s head sag against his, and the weight against his shoulder became more pronounced as Harry drifted off.  “Bloody Potter-!” Draco found himself hissing again, and the moment was broken.  There was still a feeling of warmth wrapped around the two of them, however, even as Draco got up and tried to keep the other boy from sliding bonelessly off the bed. Eventually, with a rather unceremonious shove, Draco got Harry more on the bed than off. Now wearing just trousers and the shirt he’d had under his robes, and a pair of grey socks, Potter curled up loosely where he was and gave a few torpid, semi-conscious blinks. Those blinks grew a bit more rapid and confused as, unexpectedly, a pair of sweatpants and a sleep-shirt were tossed on his head. 

Tone gruff and a bit shy – two emotions that sat uneasily on Draco’s tongue – the blonde-haired boy commanded, “Fine, you can sleep with me, but you’re going to wear pajamas like a normal person.” 

Unsure when exactly he’d agreed to this plan, Harry held his soft grey T-shirt in his hands with bewilderment.  “Draco…? Wha…?”

“Pajamas, Potter.  Come on, it’s not that difficult, even for a Gryffindor,” Draco sniped out of habit, and then he was kneeling on the edge of the bed and helping Harry worm out of his shirt. It wasn’t until his torso was bare that Harry actually seemed to realize what he was doing, and then he sat, knees pulled up and braced on his arms, looking small.  He lifted one hand to rub at his eyes beneath his glasses, as if that would wake him up a bit, before unconsciously curling in on himself a bit more as if to hide. He reached out for his nightshirt, which Draco was now holding. 

Usually, Harry was the confident one – Draco could act like a spoiled prat with enough pride to fill and ocean, but it was Potter who could stand anywhere in the world and look like he was perfectly fine there. He’d faced down a whole common-room of Slytherins without feeling the barbs of their mean comments, and the only thing that seemed to ruffle him was the Headmaster.  Right now, however, the Boy Who Lived was looking down at his lap and scooting his knees up higher to try and hide behind them.

“What gives, Potter?” Draco finally asked, still holding the shirt out of reach.

“I’m…” Harry looked up, almost pleadingly, and then gave in with a sigh.  “I’m all bony,” he finally said, and with a snap, Draco remembered the conversation in the Infirmary. 

‘ _You’re beautiful. But I’m…I’m all bony_.’

Maybe it was because of how forward Harry had been with him earlier, pulling him into a hug because he instinctively knew that Draco needed it. Regardless of the reason, Draco knelt up on the bed and immediately pushed at Harry’s knees, reaching past to pull at his bare arms even as Harry squeaked in half-hearted protest. Draco knew that Harry, at full capacity, had enough magic to hold his own in any sort of scuffle with Draco, but right now, the Malfoy boy had the advantage.  Grudgingly, Harry allowed himself to be pulled forward until he was kneeling, too, shirtless and shivering under Draco’s scrutiny.

Harry was right, actually.  He was bony – more so than Draco had expected.  Considering how much Harry regularly ate at meals, Draco didn’t want to think of skinny the dark-haired boy would have had to be before now. Even by this point, it looked as though the Gryffindor goldenboy had just put on enough weight to hide the most prominent angles of his bones.  Draco glanced up from Harry’s gently rising and falling ribs to his embarrassed eyes, trying to find words that would express what he was feeling. Being an eleven-year-old boy, that was difficult.  Finally, Draco just took in a deep breath, puffed himself up like the little falcon he was, and blurted out fiercely, “Anyone who calls you bony should be hexed, you got that, Potter?”

The clear sound of clear warning in Draco’s voice was enough to make Harry’s tired eyes widen, showing off their color – which was slowly darkening to its usual emerald green.  He rocked back on his heels a bit, just staring.  That gave Draco a chance to keep talking, and to toss his shirt at him, “So put this back on, and stop being an idiot.  For not thinking, your Gryffindors think too much sometimes.”

After a moment of stunned (or sleepy) hesitation, Harry did as told, slipping his shirt over his head in a single movement that briefly exposed his ribs like a fragile birdcage beneath his skin, and then hid it beneath the soft material of his nightshirt.  Hair sticking up in tufts and glasses askew, the sleepy Gryffindor accepted his pants, maneuvering into them while Draco looked away primly.  From behind his back, he heard Harry’s quiet, “Thanks, Draco.”

“It wasn’t that hard to find your pajamas-” Draco started to deflect archly, still looking stubbornly at the far wall, but he was interrupted.

“Not for that, Draco.  Thanks…for everything else.  You’re not half as much a prat as you make people think you are.”

That finally got Draco to turn around, slowly and shyly, but by then, Harry was keeling over on the blankets again.  This time he looked out cold for good, sprawled in his night-clothes but with his glasses still on.  Sighing and trying to feel irritated – but finding that he just couldn’t – Draco reached over and pulled the spectacles on Harry’s nose, getting a brief look at Harry’s famous scar as the boy’s hair shifted.  Sometimes, Draco forgot that other people were scarred, too, just in different, harder-to-see-ways. 

“Gryffindors are still idiots,” Draco grumbled, just to get the last word in. When he got no reply, he grabbed the blanket at the foot of the bed and dragged it up over Harry’s shoulders, flushing in embarrassment at how gentle he was being.  Then again, no one was awake and in the room to see it, so Draco carefully tucked the blanket in before slipping beneath his own covers.

It was unexpectedly…nice…comforting…when the brown-haired boy in the middle of his bed curled his head in against Draco’s knee, making a pillow of it through the blankets.  With Draco beneath the blankets and Harry on top of them, cocooned in a separate stretch of warm cloth, the two boys were almost instantly asleep. Blaise came back in about an hour later, and he was the one who drew the bed-curtains, smiling as he did so.

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From here on out, like I warned last time, there might be breaks in the timeline - I might jump ahead a bit, but not so much that I destroy the plot. Clearly, everyone has some things to work out...Severus is now in a complicated relationship, Narcissa is only going to stay oblivious for so long, and as soon as Harry and Draco grow up a bit, they are going to have feelings to deal with. 
> 
> Plus, with Harry and Draco stuck together, there's no way he can be sent back to the Dursley's, I just realized...
> 
> If the updates from now on are more sporadic, I apologize! Hopefully the summer will make posting faster, though :)


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wrapping up of things:
> 
> The school year ends.  
> Harry goes home (sort of)  
> Severus's love-life with Lucius continues to be complicated, but at least it exists.
> 
> ...And Harry gets to use Parseltongue again: Draco loves it, Severus is disturbed by it, and Lucius didn't realize just how much of a Parselmouth Potter was

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  If you are a visual person, read the note at the end of the chapter - there are snakes mentioned, and I give links to what they look like. (Hopefully that is not too much of a spoiler...)

~^~

Harry walked beside Severus up to the Malfoy manner, nervous as always next to the formidable Potions Master.  He’d been surprised at how quickly Snape had volunteered to be the one accompanying him – it had been decided that the only option now for the summer would be for Harry to stay with the Malfoys, since Draco still needed him to keep his magic under control.  That conversation had quickly grown incredibly uncomfortable, as the topic unavoidably slid towards Harry’s home-life with the Dursleys.  Lucius had asked why Harry’s home was not an option for the summer, Dumbledore had tried to dance around the subject, and Harry had finally gotten mad in a rare burst of temper and the walls of the Headmaster’s office had shaken. It had taken Draco’s hand on his shoulder to pull him out of it, and it had taken all of Harry’s willpower not to start screaming.  The Dursleys were _not_ a fit home for Draco and Harry to both spend part of the summer in, because the Dursleys were barely a fit home for Harry on his own to survive in.  It was now starting to look like the Headmaster had known this, and that only increased the fury crackling and burning away behind Harry’s breastbone.

Usually, Harry was a master at keeping his emotions under control, if only because fits of temper never got him anything but trouble with the Dursleys. This time, however, it was too much to keep in, and angry tears escaped hotly from the Gryffindor boy’s eyes before he could stop them.  Maybe in deference to Harry’s pride – or maybe just in deference to the fact that the Headmaster had not transferred control of the castle back from Harry to himself – the subject was not pursued in more detail, although there were lots of significant, unsettled looks between Draco, Lucius, and Severus. 

After that, plans were arranged.  Lucius agreed that having two boys in his house would hardly be more difficult than one, especially if the alternative was losing quality time with his own son should both Draco and Harry spend time at another residence. Lucius had gone to explain matters to Narcissa, and the Headmaster had taken Harry to talk everything over with Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia.

The talk hadn’t gone well.  The only thing he could be thankful for was that Draco had been in another room – just at the edge of their Resonance – with a muffling spell raised around him to block out the yelling.  No spell could block out how moody and closed-off Harry was when he got back, however, and there wasn’t any real conversation between the two until they left for the Malfoy Manor two days later.

For other people, Harry was dazzlingly normal.  He put away his upset frown for a bright smile that Draco could see right through, and then lied through his teeth when asked what his summer plans were.  He said he’d be spending some time at the Malfoys and some at the Dursleys (being always stuck with Draco), as if everything were normal.  Draco, standing behind him more or less invisibly, huffed as Harry’s magic prickled like a sorcerous flinch every time Harry or anyone else said the name ‘Dursley’. Ron and Hermione were more than willing to swallow the half-truth, however, and when Draco asked later about the mail going to the wrong house, Harry just said stiffly that Hedwig could sort it all out – she was a smart owl, and could get the message to Harry eventually. The conversation ended there.

Now Harry and Draco were walking with Severus, who despite his continued dislike for Harry in his classroom, had offered to take the boys to the Malfoy residence.  Because of the still-healing wound on Snape’s arm, they had arrived by remarkably Muggle means – apparently, the wound was more serious than Snape had let on, because the spells and potions Pomfrey had given Severus were sensitive to magical travel. The man still walked with a brisk stride and had no problem shouting at whatever dunderheads blew up their cauldrons, but he favored his right arm and Harry’s keen green eyes could still see the white bandage peaking out at the write of Snape’s sleeve. Draco – simply eager to back home – wasn’t paying attention, but Potter also noticed that Severus’s face kept giving away little flickers of emotion.  Anticipation.  Irritation. Eagerness.  Fear.  He seemed almost as nervous about this visit as Harry was. 

There were surely powerful wards around the house, but they merely gave a happy hum as Draco reached them first and breezed right through. Severus halted, uneasy, but blinked in surprise as a similar hum made the shield ripple at his arrival. It seemed that he was welcome. “Come along, Potter,” Snape said, looking down imperiously but also holding out his hand.  “It would be supremely foolish for Lucius to exclude you from his home, so stop shuffling your feet and walk.”

Despite the sneering tone, the hand remained outstretched – an offering. Harry took it without thinking too hard on that, and both he and Snape stepped forward through the impressive wards. Harry felt a tingle as he passed through, a painless crackle of energy that made him gasp, but then he was on the other side and Severus was slipping his hand free as if the hand-holding had never happened.  As brief and honestly weird as the gesture had been, it had been appreciated.  Harry continued to note Severus’s unease and tenseness all the way up to the door, where Draco was already knocking, forgetting about being proper and aristocratic and instead bursting inside seconds after his knuckles rapped against the door.  Even though he’d seen his father barely days ago, there was nothing to match a triumphal return home, it seemed. 

Perhaps since Harry was watching Snape’s reactions, it was only fair that Severus looked over and noted the wistful, curious look that Harry was favoring Draco with as the pale-haired boy raced inside.  “What is it, Potter?” he demanded, his voice made sharp by his own odd mood.

Potter didn’t notice the sharpness, or chose to ignore it as he said haltingly, “I wish…I could understand how that feels.”  He didn’t explain more, looking sheepish instead, but even as Harry hurried forward to avoid questioning, Severus knew that this had to do with the Dursleys.  Although he had not been present, Severus had heard about the blowout that had occurred at the Gryffindor boy’s home residence.  It did not sound…enviable.  Or welcoming. Unsure of his own welcome, Severus got his feet moving again to bring up the rear, following Harry into the Malfoy Manor.

Lucius and Narcissa were already surrounding their son, and they looked so much like a perfect family picture that Severus wasn’t sure whether to sneer or look away.  Something like guilt warred with disgust in his belly, because as much as he knew the picture was nothing more than that – a picture, conjured for the moment and as thin as paper – he also couldn’t help but think that his presence would destroy the illusion. After all, Lucius had made it very clear that he was still interested in engaging in trysts with the dour Potions Master. There was no way that Narcissa would easily stand for that, and Severus braced himself for the possibility of trouble. His stood formally, hands clasped behind his back, even though the posture hurt his healing arm. A little bit of pain would do to keep him sharp, he hoped, but Lucius must have been monitoring his magic, because the man’s blonde head jerked up with narrowed eyes.  There was a brief, speculative look, before Lucius went back to playing doting parent and husband.  Out of the two, only the first one wasn’t an act.  “Draco, my son, I’m so glad to have you back home!”

“As am I!” Narcissa joined in with the perfect amount of cheer. Her sable-and-blonde hair had been braided up delicately behind her ears, intertwining the two colors artfully upon her head, bringing out the green in her hazel eyes.  Sometimes, in his less charitable moments, Severus had wondered whether Narcissa dyed her hair that exact shade of silver-blonde on the sides to match her husband.  “All right now, dearest – introductions.”

Despite the fact that she had been hugging Draco a moment before, the woman was now addressing Lucius, hands still on Draco’s shoulders.

Lucius’s eyes had been on Severus already, and when Severus belatedly met them, he had to keep from twitching at the naked interest in them. Only the tilt of Lucius’s head – away from Narcissa – kept the witch in the room from noticing. Fortunately, Lucius was as tactful as he was daring, and he put the look away a second later as his voice slipped into the smooth modulation of host, “Severus, you and Narcissa already know one another.  Narcissa, this is the renowned Harry Potter.  Potter, my wife, Narcissa.” 

For all that Narcissa used phrases like ‘dearest’, Severus detected an edge in Lucius’s voice even when he just said the woman’s name. Clearly, the tension between the two had increased since he’d last seen them, and his stomach did an uncomfortable flip as he realized that he was going to be like blood in the water to two already-riled sharks.  He wanted to curse Lucius – if not for his ability to lure Severus in, then his ability to do it at such a bad time.  Then again, was there ever a good time to sleep with a married man behind his wife’s back? Severus highly doubted it, but couldn’t see how to disentangle himself from the situation without coming out shredded at the other end. 

So instead of drowning in the inevitability of chaos, he turned his attention to something more productive: Potter, whom he was escorting to a new temporary home.  “Potter, at least pretend to have manners and greet the Lady Malfoy,” he prodded mercilessly when Harry was slow to respond. 

That earned him a reflexive glare.  Fortunately, Potter’s skills were not so rusty that a mere formality like shaking hands was beyond him, and he managed to awkwardly step forward. It wasn’t exactly the bowing and scraping that some did for Purebloods, but it served.  Somewhat coolly, Narcissa accepted the small hand, and Lucius did so with something of an amused smirk on his face. With any luck, they would just categorize Potter as ‘cute’ and proceed benignly from there.

Although, considering what Lucius knew about Potter – wandless, Parseltongue, Sensitive – it was unlikely that he’d dismiss the boy so easily. At least Dumbledore had control of Hogwarts again. 

~^~

Harry couldn’t help but notice that Narcissa’s friendliness looked a lot like Aunt Petunia’s: something taken off the shelf and dusted to make it presentable for company.  She smiled quite a lot, but Harry was good at catching people when they thought no one was looking, and at those times, her face looked more like an icy mask.  He was guiltily glad when she made an excuse (a rather transparent one, to be honest) and slipped away, leaving Lucius to lead everyone into the sitting room, where tea was already sitting out. Draco and Harry took up seats and sat quite properly, Harry mimicking everyone else in the room rather nervously in the hopes of not messing up, while Lucius laid out the general rules of the house.  Harry listened very carefully, aware by now that his own home-life was…somewhat atypical. It wasn’t until he’d visited Ron’s and heard stories of everyone else’s homes that he’d realized not everyone lived in a cupboard or did chores until they were almost too shaky to stand. Also, from what he’d gleaned, it wasn’t considered normal for a caring parent to cuff a child as much as he’d been. Dudley’s bullying behavior had been somewhat more normal, although at least Ron’s brothers had repaid their nastiness by always having Ron’s back when he needed it. 

All that meant that Harry had very little idea how a normal household was run, and he didn’t want to embarrass himself by assuming that he was supposed to weed the garden or something. 

The list of rules and schedules Lucius gave wasn’t exactly expansive (it sounded like the House Elves did everything short of dressing their masters in the mornings), nor was it given in a particularly serious or militant tone. In fact, once he was assured that Narcissa had left the house to meet up with friends, Lucius had taken it upon himself to share Snape’s seat on the couch across from Draco and Harry, lounging quite elegantly next to the dark-haired man.  This whole time, Snape had sat silently and stiffly, barely touching his tea, but now he looked as though he were considering Apparating right out of there.  Eyebrows lowering a bit, Harry had to admit that Mr. Malfoy _was_ sitting a tad closer than friendship required.  When he realized that Lucius had caught his look and was now meeting his gaze, Harry flushed bright red with embarrassment.

But the aristocrat just smiled.  It was an honestly worrisome smile in that it was suggestive and predatory enough to show that Lucius knew exactly what Harry had been thinking. Without breaking the conversation in the slightest, Lucius casually leaned even closer to Severus, eliciting a surprised twitch.  “Welcome to my household, Mr. Potter,” Lucius ended the conversation, “Draco can show you up to our rooms.”

“Come on,” Draco grabbed him impatiently by the sleeve, slipping off the couch. It was hard to tell, but it seemed that Draco’s impatience was actually trying to hide eagerness, and Harry couldn’t remember seeing the blonde-haired boy this relaxed. Was this how normal people were in their homes?  A bit dazed by all of this, Harry let himself be dragged along like a toddler’s little red wagon.

It turned out that ‘rooms’ plural was indeed very plural, to the extent that Harry just ended up standing and staring in his new sitting room – an actual sitting room just for Harry and Draco.  There were at least four doors leading off it: two to separate bedrooms (still close enough to keep Draco’s magic happy and settled), a bathroom (which also connected to both bedrooms, and was nearly as large as a bedroom), and the door they’d just entered by.  Draco looked pleased as punch by Harry’s reaction, and stood with his arms crossed, preening quite obviously.  “Father had to magically rearrange this floor a bit, but that’s nothing new. Mother rearranged the rooms at least a dozen times last year, saying she didn’t like ‘the feel of it’ or whatever,” Draco shrugged, torn between proud and flustered at his mother. He shook it off, noticing that Harry was still standing and staring like his brain had been frozen. Draco snapped his fingers once or twice in front of the other boy’s nose.  “Hey, Potter.  Look alive – I’m trying to show you around.”

“S-Sorry,” Harry stuttered, overwhelmed.  He rubbed awkwardly at one arm and shifted his weight, trying to look more attentive and less stunned.  “It’s just that,” the words slipped out of his mouth, “I think my whole house could fit in this room.”

Draco stopped, abruptly remembering their brief visit to Harry’s residence. Draco had spent most of the time banished to the grubby box of a room that passed for a kitchen, his exclusion strengthened by noise-muffling spells, but he’d gotten the idea that Harry’s house was mind-numbingly small.  When he’d seen how many belongings Harry had to transfer for the summer, the idea had grown even more soberingly stark, and now Draco looked around his room with new eyes. Before he could come up with some comment that wouldn’t sound awkward or callous, Harry gave a nervous, forced chuckle and spoke himself, “My house must look like a shoebox to you.”

“Yeah, well, your Aunt and Uncle looked like shoes,” Draco retorted, feeling like the ground he was on was more solid.  He was reasonably sure that Harry disliked his family enough to allow the sarcastic comment, and was proved right a moment later when Harry smirked. Draco felt a curl of mischievous warmth travel up behind his ribcage as he picked up Harry’s hesitant happiness, and without knowing why, Draco felt the need to crack open that happiness a little more.  “No,” Draco pretended to consider, stroking his chin with a finger, “Actually, you’re uncle’s a little bit big for a shoe.  And round. Honestly, who would _buy_ a shoe like that?”

“Aunt Petunia, apparently,” Harry snorted sardonically, but his good humor unfolded a bit more as Draco’s joking stripped away his unease. “Dudley, though, is a toad.” Harry’s eyes lit up a second after he said it, as if amazed at himself for speaking the thought out loud. Then he smiled, a moment later, as he realized that no one was going to rebuke him for it. His relief translated through his magic to make Draco feel a rush like a cool breeze ripple right against his skin; he drew in a little breath. 

“All right, well, now that we agree on the general identities of the Dursleys, how about you follow me?” Draco said imperiously.  If kids thought he was pompous in Hogwarts, it was nothing compared to what he was while on his own turf.  It seemed natural, though, and Harry didn’t mind it. Smiling with an easy shrug at Draco’s antics, Harry trotted after when the other boy breezed out of the room. “And this is my bedroom…”

~^~

“Lucius…” Severus’s growl was embarrassingly breathy, but he blamed that entirely upon the fact that he was pressed back against the arm of the sofa, Lucius laying claim to his mouth quite commandingly. He just now had some space between them, Severus’s hands on his chest, rumpling his robes. “Lucius, I do not believe this is entirely wise…” he warned in a low tone.

As if punishing Snape for his unease, the aristocrat leaned down and bit his lower lip, just enough to elicit a hiss.  He lapped at the marks his teeth had left, as if loving the taste of pleasure just dipping into pain.  “Stop worrying, Severus,” he chuckled throatily.  His voice was as rough as the other man’s, at least proving that they were both equally affected by the time they were stealing with one another. “This is my house; I put up most of he wards myself.  Narcissa will _have_ to knock when she gets back.” He settled his body more comfortably over Severus’s and went back to the task of laying kisses and bits lightly across his jaw. 

Severus just managed to swallow a moan before it reached maturity, although a strangled noise still escaped his throat helplessly as Lucius sucked just below his ear.  Determined not to get sidetracked, however, Severus got the words together to say, “And that won’t make her at all suspicious?”  Words were getting ridiculously hard to capture, but at least his sarcastic tone worked well enough. 

“Oh, it will make her suspicious,” Lucius said as lightly as if he were commenting on the shape of a cloud.  He definitely wasn’t giving it much worry, because his attention was now on Severus’s neck, which he’d bared a little more by unbuttoning the top few buttons of his robs and shirt-collar.  By now, Severus was lying beneath him with his hands raised rather helplessly to either side of the Pureblood.  “She’s always suspicious of me, but too much a coward to ask me anything outright. If she ever gets brave enough to confront me on any of her suspicions, I’ll give her a medal,” Lucius snorted, nipping at pale skin. 

It was disturbing how turned on Severus was, even with the threat of impending doom hanging over his head in the form of Narcissa Malfoy. He was very sure that the woman held more social clout that he could ever dream of having, and it was also entirely possible that she could outgun him magically as well. Severus was a very powerful wizard, but specialized in potions, and in avoiding fights he couldn’t win by always knowing what his enemy was planning.  Right now, if Narcissa found out that Severus was becoming a lover to her husband, it wouldn’t take a spy of Severus’s caliber to realize what her plans were. He’d known Narcissa a bit in their younger days, before she’d become a Malfoy, and she hadn’t been the type to take scorn lightly, nor had she ever enjoyed parting with what was hers. The unease Severus felt transmuted into ugly fear in his belly, but he still returned the kiss with interest that Lucius pressed against his mouth.  Apparently, he’d pined for the Malfoy patriarch for so long that it had destroyed most all of the self-preservation and common-sense that he had.

Lucius, bastard that he was, knew this and was taking every advantage of it he could.  When Severus growled and pushed upwards, Lucius didn’t looked surprised to be pushed backwards onto the other side of the couch, their positions switching as Severus followed him down, black hair and hungry lips touching Lucius’s face as the Potions Master gave back a large measure of Lucius’s ardor.  The blond-haired man smiled like the cat holding the canary the whole time. 

~^~

“Draco.”

Harry and Draco were sitting in Harry’s new bedroom.  It was huge, and Draco said that it was in need of personalizing – meaning Draco was redecorating, with Harry levitating things wandlessly at his command.  Harry didn’t seem to realize how ridiculous it was that he could lift and entire chest of drawers without blinking, but Draco restrained his awe to a few quick blinks. A Malfoy didn’t gape. “What?”

“Did you notice…”  Awkwardly, Harry stopped, sighed, and started again, “Did you notice your father and Snape? I mean…I figured they were friends and all, but…”  Harry let the sentence drop, hopeful that it would lure in an explanation. 

Instead, Draco stiffened, and said archly over his shoulder, “What are you getting at, Potter?”

Uh oh, now he’d stepped in it.  The chair Harry had been levitating wobbled to the floor, legs scraping along for a few inches as the forward momentum carried on after the upward effort faltered.  “Er…nothing,” the dark-haired boy scrambled to back away from the pit of trouble that had opened up before him, “Nothing, honestly.”  But apparently being a Gryffindor meant that his mouth sometimes kept moving without his consent – something that had often gotten him bruises back at the Dursleys’.  “It’s just that you dad and Snape were sitting really close together, and your mum…” Way too late to make any difference, Harry got ahold of himself, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste copper.  He murmured, “Shutting up now,” and lowered his shoulders contritely where he sat on the edge of the bed. 

There was a long and very uncomfortable moment of silence, in which the only sound was when Harry’s magic nervously bumped things in the room. After Narcissa had left, Harry had experienced the novelty of sharing space with only people who knew and accepted his odd gifts, and that freedom was being reflected in his magic – he didn’t have to resist the impulse to pick things up by magic anymore.

“Look, Potter,” Draco finally turned around to state, arms crossed over his narrow chest.  He looked more defensive than angry.  “You’ll figure it out sooner or later, but I don’t have a perfect family.  It may look like it to the outside world, but that’s just not the way it works.  My mother…” Draco looked away, breathing out sharply past pursed lips, clearly uncomfortable.  Unexpectedly, his voice dropped in volume and his eyes grew sad – lost. “I don’t know when she stopped being loving.” The moment of weakness was gone in a second, however, as Draco recalled that he had an audience, and wasn’t simply mumbling to himself in the mirror – for once, he was talking to someone. His defenses went up again. “It’s Malfoy business, so keep your nose out of it!” he snarled more sharply than he intended, also backing up involuntarily until he could feel the safety of the wall at his back. Muscles tight as if facing danger, he guarded himself, saying, “And don’t go telling anyone-”

“Draco!” Harry interrupted, pushing to his feet but not coming closer. The two stood for a moment, half the room between them, Harry looking a bit out of his element and Draco looking like a cornered cat about to hiss.  Silvered eyes glared at green, daring the Boy Who Lived to tease him – or to ask the real question: was Lucius Malfoy cheating on his wife with the Potions Master of Hogwarts?  It was the question that floated in the air like smoke, because even Harry and Draco weren’t so young and naïve that they couldn’t put a few dots together, even if the adults perhaps didn’t realize this. 

Finally, Harry just lifted both hands – open and palm-out in a gesture of harmlessness that wasn’t strictly true in Harry’s case, but the sincere look on his face made Draco relax.  “I’m sorry, Draco.  I didn’t mean to upset you. I understand imperfect families. Maybe…maybe I just wanted to talk about an imperfect family that wasn’t mine.”  Harry dropped his eyes, lowing his hands and shoving them into his pockets as he shrugged lamely. 

The apology had mollified Draco a bit, and Harry’s last sentence had made Draco wonder if he should apologize, too…or maybe go over and hug the other boy, because suddenly Potter seemed like the most pathetic thing in the world. “Loads of families have problems, Potter,” he said, awkwardly trying to find something reassuring to say as he took a few uncertain steps forward, “Not just ours.”

“Yeah,” Harry lifted and dropped one shoulder again, still inspecting his scuffed shoes, “But I’m sort of learning that the Dursleys are a special kind of bad.  Want to know the pathetic thing?”  Not looking up or waiting for confirmation, Harry forced out a chuckle and admitted with a bitter smile, “For the longest time after I came to Hogwarts, I thought that it was normal.”

Draco was getting suspicious, and even somewhat worried. He hadn’t cared much for the beady-eyed look of Harry’s Uncle Vernon, or the pinched smile of his aunt, but this sounded more serious.  “Thought what was normal?” he hazarded slowly.

Finally, Harry glanced up, head still down but green eyes glancing up over his glasses, partially shaded by his fringe of dark hair.  “You really want to know?” 

Not sure if he meant it, Draco nodded, folding up his legs elegantly and easily to sit on the floor.  He looked up at Harry standing about a meter away now, awaiting the story.

Running a hand back through his hair, his fingertips pausing at his nape to scratching nervously at the back of his neck, Harry looked about the room as if for inspiration or a route of escape.  After a few deep breaths, though, and one assessing look at Draco, he finally spoke, “I thought that it was normal to cook and clean for everyone, even though they didn’t have anything to do and I’d been up until one o’clock the night before doing the dishes from yesterday.  I thought it was normal to get yelled at and knocked around if I didn’t do things right – and if I _did_. Dudley didn’t do chores or get smacked, but he was…you know…normal.”

“Normal?”

“Not a freak – a wizard,” Harry supplied, as if it were the most obvious thing. His eyes were fixed on the middle distance, but his hands were clearly fisted in his pockets, and Draco could feel him getting agitated through his magic.  “I thought…I thought something was wrong with me, because I could do things. I thought I was some sort…some sort of demon.  Something evil.”

“What the hell, Potter?!” Draco couldn’t contain his shock anymore, as he stared in horror at what he was hearing, “How could you think that?! Everyone does magic. I’m pretty sure that only a small fraction of us are all that evil, and it doesn’t take magic for that.”

“I didn’t know that!” Harry shouted back, suddenly as tense as Draco had been earlier.  The volume of his own voice clearly shocked him, and he backed up to sit heavily on the bed. “I didn’t know what I was,” he repeated more quietly.  Then he looked forlornly about the big room, as if it were too much for him – Draco found out why a second later, as Harry whispered, “I lived in a closet under the stairs smaller than this _bed_. I don’t even know what to do with all of this space.” 

He was like a brilliant bird kept in a small cage, and as it was suddenly let free, it didn’t know what to do with itself – it barely even know it had wings.  All of this open space and freedom was a foreign entity it didn’t even have the tools to compute, so it sat and shuffled its crippled feet and uselessly rustled its bent feathers. 

“Here,” Draco said, suddenly sounding very gentle.  He stood up, as if afraid he might startle Harry. After a moment’s hesitation, he gripped the other boy’s wrist, which was bony and scrawny.  “I know what you need to do.”

“What?” Looking bewildered but also as fragile as glass in the wake of his confession, the bespectacled boy let himself be tugged to his feet and towards the door. 

“You’ll see.”  Draco slipped out the door, and soon had Harry hard at his heels as the two raced through Malfoy manor towards one of its studies that was generally closed to the public.

~^~

“Where did those two boys get to?” Lucius wondered aloud, eyes narrowed with something hovering carefully between suspicion and worry.  Not unexpectedly, Severus was at his back, following loyally like always.  “I sense them brush up against the wardings I put around the sitting room, but they didn’t try and come in.”

“Which does not necessarily mean they are not in trouble of some sort.” At Lucius’s sharp look, Severus explained, “One of them is a Gryffindor, Lucius.  At this age, they are drawn to trouble.  The only reason I don’t have the whole House in detention nightly is because I simply cannot be everywhere at once to see what they’re up to.”

Lucius snorted, clearly amused, and did a quick spell before placing his hand against one of the walls.  While Snape watched his work appreciatively – perhaps envying him his connection to the very walls he lived in – the elder Malfoy stretched his senses outwards until he found what he was looking for.  “Hmm.” He opened his grey eyes and withdrew his hand, looking thoughtful. 

“What?” For a moment, Severus thought of a million things Potter could have gotten up to: climbing the roof, offending the House Elves, setting off a warning spell placed around some of the more private rooms.  Draco he trusted to keep safe and out of trouble, so for him, Severus wasn’t worried. Potter, though, was an entity that he was getting used to worrying about. 

Lucius appeared far less anxious, and in fact said quite drolly as he cocked slowly smirked, “It would appear that your little Parseltongue has found some kindred spirits.”

It took Severus all of half a second to understand what that implied. He closed his eyes and lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose as if a stupendous headache had just descended upon him. “By Merlin…” he swore with feeling, before immediately spinning on his heel and walking off at a brisk pace.  He knew where he was going. 

~^~

Harry sat on the floor in the middle of a large, naturally lit room, grinning more widely than he had in days.  The walls were lined with extensive, elaborate terrariums while the ceiling was ensorcelled not unlike the Great Hall was – even though the day was cloudy, and the sun not yet overhead, brightness rained down cheerily upon the room. Sitting just a few feet away and peering over the arm of the couch, Draco was grinning, too, proud of himself for thinking of this distraction. 

No fewer than a dozen snakes surrounded Harry. 

A snake nearly as thin a shoelace wound around Harry’s pinky-finger, its childishly large head bobbling and weaving to look at the bespectacled boy who was its perch.  A two-headed beauty was just now slithering off Harry’s neck down his back, her golden hoods relaxed against her neck so that the ivory circles on them looked like two half-closed eyes. Neither Harry nor Draco cared in the slightest that she was a cobra and therefore highly venomous. None of the snakes in Lucius’s collection were a fraction the size of blue viper he’d given Severus, but some kind of python as big around as a man’s wrist was draped over Harry’s lap – a puddle of sandy gold and garnet red with the occasional, tactful specks of earthen tan. It seemed almost to smile smugly as it defended its place upon Harry’s crossed legs.  A whip-thin, smoke-grey snake tried to barge in, looping over Harry’s shoe with its strikingly red-orange head, but the python made a striking motion at it. 

Draco, watching all of this, chuckled as Harry obviously mediated the confrontation, speaking sibilant words at them in Parseltongue. The hand still tangled in the tiny snake was lowered to gently stroke the pythons head, then the other snake’s – the latter reptile then began slithering off across the carpet, seemingly unoffended by the lack of sharing.  It didn’t go far, instead joining the rest of the throng of scales that were created a loose, tangling mote around Harry. 

Only one snake was with Draco.  Presently, it was looped over the back of his ankles as the pale-haired boy knelt on the couch, his arms crossed over the chair-arm as he leaned to watch Harry more. Occasionally, Harry looked up and hissed at Draco’s grey snake.  “What kind is that?” Harry couldn’t help but ask finally.  He could talk to snakes, but he couldn’t identify them. Apparently the snakes didn’t care what species they were. 

“A dragonksnake,” smiled Draco proudly, glancing back. A thrill went up his spine at the sight of the granite-grey creature slowly lacing itself up the backs of his calves. It had ink-black, surprisingly rounded eyes and a snub nose that could almost be called cute (for a snake), as well as rows of knobbed spikes marching down its back.  So far as snakes went, it was incredibly unique. “My father has had him for decades, he says. This snake might live longer than we do.”

“I noticed that he was very wise,” Harry nodded, obviously entranced by all of this, “None of the other snakes talk quite like him.” The tiny little snake on his hand had finally gripped his fingers strongly enough to stretch over half its body-length towards Harry’s face.  Its hair-thin tongue tickled his chin with avid curiosity.  The snake leaving his back finally unwound the last of her tail from across his throat, where Draco had thought it looked an awful lot like a golden collar or necklace.   

Draco shuffled a little bit forward, his chest flush with the couch now and his arms neatly folded.  “What does he say?”

“That Severus and myself are in the doorway, finding this all very interesting and maybe a bit disturbing,” Lucius’s voice interrupted, and both boys looked around to see the blonde-haired man leaning his shoulder on the doorframe, a truly unsettled sort of frown on his mouth.  It was the least composed that Harry – or possibly even Draco – had ever seen the Malfoy aristocrat, and Severus was taking in the view. The only thing that kept Severus from commemorating the surprised moment with a bark of laughter was the fact that he was trying not to look queasy. 

“Potter,” Snape finally choked out from where he watched over Lucius’s shoulder, “must your pastimes always involve so many venomous creatures?”

“Technically, Professor,” Harry defended fairly, lifting a hand under the head of the python in his lap.  Both adults, despite knowing about Harry’s skill with snakes, flinched a little as the serpent allowed its body to be manhandled.  “This one isn’t poisonous.  Draco told me that a few others are constrictors, too.”  Right then, Harry was distracted by the tiny snake bumping his cheek with its nose, still staring at his face as if he were the moon, freshly dropped out of the sky.  “Oh. You have a point, though. This one is venomous. But it’s all right, they’ve all promised to keep their mouths shut.”  This would have been more convincing if one of the golden cobra heads hadn’t chosen that moment to yawn just behind Harry, out of his range of vision, long fangs flexing as she contorted her jaws briefly and then subsided.  Severus looked like he was going to be sick, and Lucius was still staring. 

It was the Potions Master, however, who finally regained himself and stepped forward, pushing past Lucius with a fortifying deep breath. Quite calmly, for all the world as if he did this every day, Snape waded gingerly through the woven quilt of snakes. Harry hissed at them intermittently, and Snape just hoped he was apologizing to any that he nearly stepped on. Finally, Snape loomed over Harry, and gave his best disinterested glare.  “Are you quite finished, Potter, or should we delay lunch?”

“Oh!” The hour took Harry by surprise, and even Draco blinked, surprised how much time had passed while they’d indulged Harry’s most interesting gift.  While Draco remained still so as not to unseat the dragonsnake with sudden movements, Harry just jumped right up.  Severus winced and reached for his wand, but no one got bitten: the red-and-cream python merely rolled elegantly to the soft carpet next to the snake that had slipped off Harry’s shoe, and the string-thin snake swayed and now stared at Severus as it followed Harry’s hand upwards.  Perhaps Harry had forgotten that it was still there, because he only looked at it when he noticed Snape staring at his hand. Before he could look around for a place to put it (hissing at it gently the whole while), Draco reached out a hand from the couch.  “Give it to me,” he offered happily.

Finally, Lucius roused himself from the sight of someone other than the Dark Lord speaking to snakes.  “No!” he commanded, seeing his son reaching for a remarkably deadly little snake, “Draco, you know as well as I do the deadliness packed into that thing.”

“Yeah, but father, Potter wouldn’t let it hurt me,” whined Draco, before casting beseeching eyes Harry’ way, “Would you, Harry?  Come on, let me hold it.  I never get to touch this one – or the dragonsnake.”

Lucius paled and looked like he wanted to sit down.  In a voice that said he’d regret asking, the aristocrat demanded, “Where is the dragonsnake?”

Enjoying himself more than he should, Draco put on a bland face and reached behind him, carefully sifting his fingers under sooty-grey scales and lifting up a handful of snake.  “This okay, Harry?” Silver eyes glanced between snake and Gryffindor boy. 

Harry had been talking to the python at his feet, but glanced up. “Oh, yeah, sure. Just loosen your fingers a bit more – you’re poking his belly.”  As Draco gladly did as commanded, Harry turned back to find Snape glowering at him, and wilted a bit.  “I swear, I made sure that none of these snakes would hurt Draco before I let them out. I told them that if they so much as thought about striking him, they’d have me to answer to. I know I can levitate them away fast enough-”

“Potter,” Snape interrupted in a completely toneless voice, stopping the fervent babbling, “I’m not glaring because you have decided to unleash Lucius’s pets, I am glaring because there is presently a two-headed golden cobra around my feet, and I would like to eventually walk out of this room and to the dining hall – without a passenger.”

“Ah…okay,” Harry recovered, ears turning red in embarrassment as he noticed the eyespots of the two cobra-hoods winding up Severus’s trouser-leg. Draco was doing a very, very poor job of stifling giggles, and Harry was pretty sure that Draco was going to get a lecture for setting this all up and then reaping the benefits. “Er…sorry about that…she…uh…” There was no good way to say this. “…Doesn’t want to let go.”

Snape’s eyebrows plummeted suddenly down over his dark eyes. “What?”  As his voice rose a fraction, Lucius relaxed enough to hide a snicker with an elegant hand. 

Harry handed the tiny snake off to Draco, as if he’d already forgotten being told not to do that; Draco smiled smugly and pretended he didn’t see his father’s worried glare.  Fortunately, both the tiny snake and the dragon-snake were on their best behavior after being told that this was the Snake-Lord’s Most Trusted One. Harry, hands now free, knelt down swiftly at Severus’s feet and began having a sibilant conversation with the cobra, eventually slipping a hand between Snape’s trousers and her looping coils. “I told all of them not to bite you, too, Professor,” Harry admitted, growing embarrassment as he continued to unwrap the reptile, “She might have taken that to mean something more, though – like showing affection.”  He finally got her loose, although the cobra promptly wrapped around his arm instead: it looked like Harry had golden armor from palm nearly to the curve of his shoulder, one of the two heads nestling adoringly on his clavicle. Harry had the grace to look the teensiest bit humiliated by the serpentine doting.

Lucius was watching with morbid curiosity.  “I did not realize I had such affectionate snakes.”

“Shut it, Lucius.  Lunch had better be spectacular to make up for this,” Severus grumped, clearly finished with all of them.  Most everyone was smirking a bit as they watched the tall dark man turn and exit, stubbornly striding in between snakes to finally sweep past Lucius and out of the room.

~^~

At dinner, Severus was a veritable storm-cloud, but he didn’t seem specifically angry at anybody – except, maybe, at Lucius for having that many snakes in the first place.  Despite the fact that the Malfoy man kept gifting him with serpents, Snape was still more unsettled than honored. 

Dinner was indeed good, although almost formal enough that Harry feared doing something wrong.  Fortunately, he was seated by Draco, and Narcissa had yet to show up yet.

Draco felt a hand bump his under the table.  “Here,” Harry whispered under his breath, glancing down enough so that he could pin Draco’s hand in place and keep it still. Draco was about to ask what the bugger he was doing when something cool and marbled slid across his skin, exiting Harry’s sleeve before moving smoothly from Harry’s wrist to Draco’s.  A swift glance down told Draco that it was the dragonsnake, now curling up contentedly on his lower arm, hidden under his sleeve as it had been under Harry’s. 

Green eyes were watching him with a tentative, hopeful smile in them. “He really likes you, so…I thought…” Words failed Harry, and he finished the rest with a little shrug and a helpful glance down at the snake. Only then did he realize that he was still holding Draco’s wrist carefully, pressing it down against the Slytherin boy’s leg.  He pulled back with a little embarrassed squeak that had both Lucius and Severus briefly looking up at him. 

“Fork slipped,” Harry lied lamely, the red blush on his cheeks doing a lot to make his story believable.  The two adults went back to their conversation. 

Still feeling the warmth of Harry’s hand – and surprisingly okay with that – Draco moved his other hand to hesitantly stroke the grey head. It was rougher than the scales of most snakes, as if it had a million beads for scales. It rocked its head under his touch and snugged itself more tightly around his skin.  “Thanks,” he whispered back, and Harry blinked as if no one ever said thanks to him. 

But after a moment, the darker-haired boy also smiled. “No problem.”

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are references for all of the snakes that I mentioned! I'm a visual person...
> 
>  **The snake on Harry’s finger:**  
>  http://zoltantakacs.com/zt/im/scan/snakes/25929_340.jpg
> 
>  **The snake coming off his neck (only imagine two heads):**  
>  http://media-cache-ec0.pinimg.com/236x/f1/7e/a2/f17ea2dd76d3792665f51ad44abe3f1e.jpg
> 
>  **The snake on Harry’s lap:**  
>  http://cdn0.lostateminor.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/graphic-and-breathtaking-snakes-photographed-by-mark-laita-4.jpeg  
> The snake by Harry’s shoe: http://cdn0.lostateminor.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/graphic-and-breathtaking-snakes-photographed-by-mark-laita.jpeg
> 
>  **Draco’s dragon-snake:** http://i1015.photobucket.com/albums/af276/vuduman/166484_147211712003314_100001434583715_324138_2193522_n.jpg


End file.
